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MRS. NEEDELL’S NOVELS. 

Each, 12ino. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“ The elevation of Mrs. Needell’s style, her power in the de- 
velopment of character, and her skill in the management and 
evolution of her plots, make her books thoroughly worth read- 
ing .” — Charleston ^eivs and Courier. 


The Vengeance of Janies Vansittarl. 

Mrs. Needed has always shown a quick appreciation of the 
dramatic possibilities which lie so near the surface of everyday 
life, but her study of motives and primitive forces has resulted 
in nothing so absorbing as the story which is unfolded in her 
latest book. 

Stephen Ellicotl’s Daughter. 

“I am desirous to bear my humble testimony to the great 
ability and high aim of the work.” — Hon. W. E. Gladstone. 

Ltieia, Hugh, and Another. 

“ There is not a page that does not hold the attention riveted.” 
—Philadelphia Item, 

Passing the Love of Women. 

The Story of Philip Methuen. 

New York : D. APPLETON CO., 72 Fieth Avenue. 



THE STORY OF 
PHILIP METHUEN 


BY 

MRS. J. H. ^EDELL 

AUTHOR OF STEPHEN ELLICOtTI^’S DAUGHTER, ETC. 





Authorized Edition, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


CHAPTER I. 


“ O Florence, with thy Tuscan fields and hills, 
Thy famous Arno, fed with all the rills, 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy.*' 


“Bom into life! who lists 

May what is false hold dear, 

And for himself makes mists 
Through which to see less clear; 

The world is what it is for all our dust and din." 

— M. Arnold. 

The scene is Florence, the month May, and the time 
some two hours after sunrise. Already the city is astir, 
and the country people are trooping in and will soon be 
setting forth their fragrant wares in the market-place. 
Eggs in pyramids, of every shade of color, from pure 
white to softest brown and palest green ; curd cheeses, 
round and smooth, and stacked like cannon-balls, with 
little twigs of the still tender chestnut-trees, fresh picked 
in the dewy dawn, thrust into the interstices. 

The time for ripe fruits is not come yet ; the gourds 
and pomegranates are hanging crude and colorless on 
their parent stems, and the neutral-tinted berries of the 
grape scarcely show beneath the full spring leafage of 
the vines. But color is not wanting: tall arum lilies 
stand in stately ranks, while masses of gladiola, cycla- 
men, violets, and the bearded hyacinth are lying about 
in heaps, soon to be divided by swift fingers into po- 
sies, when they will overfiow the market-place and be ex- 
posed upon the old gray basements of the city’s palaces, 
to tempt the eye of the English and American stranger. 
While the patient mules are being unladen, and the 
baskets unpacked, the voices of girls and women, with 
a sprinkling of men among them, rise clear and reso- 
nant in the delicious morning air ; if the joke be rough or 
the speech sharp, it comes softened and rounded in the 


2 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


mellow Tuscan patois; and a glance at their lithe forms 
and bold and vivid faces shows where Michael Angelo 
got his models and Savonarola his eager followers. 

But let us leave the market, and, ascending the left 
bank of the river toward the Uffizi, stand still for a mo- 
ment and look around at perhaps the fairest sight under 
heaven. Domes and spires fill the smokeless air, which, 
of necessity, are of carven stone ; but where else is stone 
carved and shaped into leafage and loveliness so delicate 
and ethereal? Look at the finely-fretted parapet of Or 
San Michele, lifting its sharp outlines above the dim, 
tortuous streets which inclose it ; while the huge church 
itself, square-set like a fortress, uprears its bulk against 
the clouds with a mountainous majesty which seems to 
make it more akin to nature than to the work of man. 
And then by a little change of position you will be able 
to catch a glimpse of the Campanile of Giotto, more than 
five centuries old, but looking to-day, as has been charm- 
ingly said, “ as fair and fresh in its perfect grace as if 
angels had built it in the night just past.” 

But detail and panegyric are out of place where every 
church exhibits or encloses the supreme efforts and tri- 
umphs of genius, to be only outdone by the treasures 
stored in the noble palaces themselves ; and the whole is 
pitched in the midst of cypress groves, olive slopes, and 
gardens flooded with sunshine and alight with changeful 
color, while the yellow Arno rolls through the fertile 
valley and the distant Apennines shut in the picture. 

On the morning with which we have to do, a man has 
just pushed open the window of a room in one of . the 
irregular picturesque houses on the Lung’ Arno, and 
stepping out on the balcony which projects over the full- 
flowing stream below, leans heavily over the rail and 
gazes out at the scene before him. He is intimately ac- 
quainted with the city on which his eyes rest, so as to 
be able to fill in from memory every point where vision 
fails. He can even recall the harmonious tints and 
weather-stains of certain old frescoes on the wall in a 
far-away street, or some grotesque bas-relief on a crum- 
bling lintel ; he can see the dusky interior of some forge 
or trader’s stall, which he will never pass again, or that 
of some stately church where the vast roof tapers up to 
a shimmering point of light, and through the issue of 
the half-open doors the baked pavement of the piazza 
gleams white and dazzling outside. At this very mo- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH. 


3 


ment color and light, sunshine and warmth, steep the 
whole world beyond his window : the pulse of life seems 
almost audible to listening ears. 

The senses of this man, Lewis Trevelyan, who was 
gazing and listening, were almost preternaturally acute, 
for protracted disease had worn to tenuity the carnal 
elements of his body, and wrought upon nerves and brain 
till the highest point of tension and exasperation had 
been reached. He was quite aware that almost to the 
last the sands in his hour-glass were run, and that prob- 
ably he would never be able to repeat the effort which 
had enabled him to reach the outside balcony of his 
room. Even now his strength was so far failing him as 
to make it difficult for him to retain his grasp upon the 
parapet ; and a pang of mixed fear and humiliation had 
struck across his heart when he became aware of an 
opening door and footsteps in the room behind him, and 
the next moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and 
a strong arm caught and propped his staggering figure. 

“ You here!” he gasped, looking up into the face bent 
anxiously over him — “ you here ! What can have drawn 
you forth from St. Sulpice? I never expected to see your 
face again.” 

“ Wait a moment till you have recovered yourself a 
little, and I will explain.” 

It would not have been difficult for Philip Methuen to 
have raised the sick man in his arms and carried him 
back to the couch he had quitted, but he refrained, from 
a quick perception that such an action would have hurt 
the pride of the other, and contented himself with help- 
ing his painfully slow and difficult progress back to his 
former place and position. 

When he had arranged his pillows, and given him a 
few drops of wine from a bottle of Johannisberger which 
stood on a little table close at hand, he drew a chair to 
the sofa and sat down beside his friend. 

He had brought in with him from the market a bunch 
of roses and a fragrant sheaf of lilies of the valley, which 
he had flung down in his haste to help Trevelyan, and a 
little rough terra-cotta pot full of ripe strawberries. 

“ I see — you have not forgotten,” said Trevelyan, who 
had rallied a little by this time ; “ but the child is not 
here. I have sent her back again to Fiesole ; what could 
a dying man do with her?” 

Then after a pause, during which the young man re- 


4 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


garded him with grave, compassionate eyes: “ You came 
in the nick of time to save me from the death of a dog ; 
had I dropped on those stones I should never have risen 
again. Conceive my lying there in the eye of the sun 
till old Assunta had come in to discuss my superfluous 
dinner, or perhaps Richetti himself, bent on repeating 
the plausible falsehoods to which my ears had at last 
grown deaf! At last! it has been a long process, 
Philip.” 

Methuen’s face was clouded and distressed, but he 
seemed to And it hard to answer. The other observed 
him with a keenness which weakness seemed scarcely 
to obscure, and smiled as if amused. 

'‘Come,” he continued, ” say what is in your heart if 
it will make it lighter. Repeat the old formulas — my 
friendship will stand the strain. I have found life a bad 
business — a hard struggle, with the certainty of being 
vanquished in the end. Is not that the gospel according 
to Schopenhauer, and which I have proved and prac- 
tised.^ You believe in God and a future life — in his 
goodness and management of affairs. If there were one, 
I would thank him that he has given me courage enough, 
in the thick of my miseries and disappointments, to re- 
ject consolations to which the whole universe gives the 
lie !” 

He spoke eagerly, in spite of pain and breathlessness : 
his was a temperament which would never grow cold 
till the hand of death quenched its ardors. It seemed to 
Philip that he rather desired to believe what he asserted 
than believed it. 

” Are we able to pronounce on the whole universe?” he 
answered. ” Is not doubt a shade better than despair?” 

Again the kind, cynical smile played round Trevel- 
yan’s pale lips. 

” I know you have the courage of your opinions, Me- 
thuen, and only spare me controversy and exhortation out 
of pity for my condition. But the time is gone by for 
that. I never hoped to have the chance of talking about 
my affairs to you again, and must make the best of it. 
But first, what has happened? How comes it that that 
tawny poll of yours is not yet disfigured by the tonsure? 
If you had come back a full-blown priest, I am not sure 
I should have refused to make my confession, and re- 
ceived the sacred wafer at your hands. It would have 
done me no harm, and given you an innocent satisfaction.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


5 


“All that is postponed. I have consented, if not to 
give up my vocation, at least to consider about giving 
it up.” 

Trevelyan stared at him in blank astonishment. 

“ I thought nothing more could surprise me, but this 
does. Come, Methuen, I see the matter goes hard with 
you, but there need be no hesitation in making confi- 
dences to a dying man. Has your faith got a shock? 
No : it was too inveterate for fact or reason to shake it. 
Has the Abbe de Seve made some requisition beyond 
even your fanaticism to meet, or the world-wise arch- 
bishop himself opposed your singular predilection for 
martyrdom among the unsavory savages of the Corea? 
Anyway, it is a satisfaction I never bargained for. May 
I wish you joy?” 

“As you like; only bear in mind I have received the 
hardest blow fate could well have dealt me — that the 
deliberate plan of my life is upset. Try and understand 
what it is to have been on the point of consecration to a 
work you believed the best on earth, and to find yourself 
suddenly pulled back and forced to face the other way — 
a way you dislike and contemn.” 

“ Ah, I begin to see daylight ! Some stroke of good 
fortune has occurred to you, and your mother, like a 
sensible woman as she is, has put her veto on the priest- 
hood.” 

“ You are right in a way. My cousin is dead on the 
very eve of his wedding-day, and my uncle writes to 
urge — to command me to ” he hesitated. 

“ To raise up seed unto your cousin ! Is it part of the 
compact to take the widowed bride, or will a free choice 
be allowed you? In that case I shall put in a claim for 
my little gypsy. Forgive me, Philip, but I shall go down 
to the grave better content that you are compelled to 
play a man’s part in life. Priests don’t count as men.” 

Methuen smiled. 

“ I should have supposed a disciple of Schopenhauer 
would have deplored the probability of adding to the 
unredeemed sum of human misery, but there is but one 
logical faith. At least you now understand how the 
case stands with me, and we can talk of other things. 
You are much weaker, Trevelyan, than I expected to 
find you. Tell me anything you wish that it is in my 
power to do. I start for England to-day to be in time 
for poor Mark’s funeral.” 


6 


7^ HE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH. 


“ Then you must come back,’* was the eager rejoinder. 
“ I have not a single friend in Florence, nor outside of it, 
for that matter. I look to you, Philip, to see me put 
under ground, with decency at least, and to wind up my 
affairs* There is but a couple of hundreds lying at the 
bank here to my credit, which will be enough for such 
meagre funeral rites as I desire, and for the few debts I 
leave behind. Should there be any surplus, well — that 
will be my daughter’s fortune !” He spoke with concen- 
trated bitterness, and added : “ Advise me what I am to 
do with the pauper !” 

“ You have positively no relations who would be her 
natural guardians?” 

“ Yes. I have a sister married to a parson in Sir Giles 
Methuen’s own parish; but they are poor, and she hates 
me. I am talking against my strength, but must explain 
— if I can. Mine was not a good youth, Philip, and my 
early follies helped to ruin her prospects. Her dowry 
was swallowed up in the payment of debts it would have 
/ been a shame to have left unpaid. Noblesse oblige, and 
we were an honorable family, though a very impover- 
ished one. Through this the man of her choice threw 
her over, and she has always visited his sins, as well as 
my own, on my head, in spite of my endeavor to con- 
vince her that it was a stroke of good luck that she found 
him out this side of matrimony. She says also that I 
broke my father’s heart. She would turn my miserable 
little girl out of doors.” 

There was an awkward pause, then Trevelyan spoke 
again : 

“ I have thought of your mother, Philip. Ah, I see ; 
that, too, is a forlorn-hope ! Let it be as if I had not 
spoken. The little minx has the gift of alienating good- 
will.” 

“It is not that,” said the other quickly; “but my 
mother has no love for children. I often think she 
barely tolerates her son. But if your sister is married 
to the vicar of Skeflfington, my task is easy. I will go to 
her before I see you again. I cannot believe that it will 
be difficult to arrange matters.” 

“ That means you will offer to pay her handsomely 
for the girl’s board, lodging, and education; but I would 
not trust her even then. Moreover, it strikes me you 
are. reckoning without your host. I know your yearly 
income, my dear fellow — what the mother disburses 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 7 

(pardon me), and on what the son subsists, charities in- 
clusive. No doubt the old baronet will increase your al- 
lowance, now you are become heir-presumptive, but only 
on condition that you show yourself accommodating. It 
will not be wise or w-ell for you to burden yourself with 
the charge of a young woman on first starting in life. 
You are now, remember, one of the laity.” 

“ A young woman !” repeated Methuen, smiling. 

“ That is what .it is her misfortune to become, unless 
we could both go under ground together, which would 
be the best solution of the difficulty. I would not own to 
any one but you how anxious I am about the girl’s fut- 
ure, with her promise of beauty, her strong will and 
vehement temper.” He sighed impatiently. “I wish 
she had never been bom ! How can I die in peace, leav- 
ing that miserable little waif afloat on life’s current?” 

Methuen got up and looked at his watch. 

“ It grieves me to say I must go, but a week hence we 
will talk this matter over again. You may rest assured 
that I will see your sister, and bring back good news to 
you.” 

He held the frail hand of the sick man closely but 
gently grasped, and looked down at him with an expres- 
sion of such conipassionate sympathy as to bring the 
tears to his eyes. 

You must live till I come back,” he added, “ by God’s 
grace or force of will. I v/ill write to you at every 
chance till I stand here by your side again. AddiOy a 
riverderci ! ” 

As he went out Trevelyan turned his face to the wall 
and groaned. 

“Never more!” he said to himself, “never more! I 
have looked my last upon the one face I care to see.” 


CHAPTER H. 

“A life of nothings, nothing worth, 

From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

—The Two Voices, 

It was a late spring in England. Cutting east winds 
had prevailed through the whole of May, and at the end 
of the month there came a frost so severe as to nip to the 
core the well-expanded blossoms of the Dorset apple- 


8 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


orchards, and with them the hopes of a profitable har- 
vest. 

“ What could God A 'mighty mean by sending such a 
cruel night of weather?” asked one honest farmer of an- 
other, as they stood beneath the blackened branches; 
and gardeners surveyed with equal despair the scorched 
and shrivelled appearance of their wall-fruit trees, which 
yesterday had been alive with promise. 

The very woods seemed to suspend development ; the 
oak and beech still showed their gaunt, gray boughs but 
thinly clad with tender leafage ; and the ebon buds of 
the ash were locked hard and close in the ungenial air. 
Here and there the wild cherry and crab gleamed white 
or pink against the dim and dusky pines ; and the pale 
stars of the persistent primrose still covered the banks 
among the mossy roots of hazels through which the 
ferns were thrusting their russet scrolls. But the tender 
blue of the forget-me-not and the full amethyst of the 
hyacinth delayed their blossoming, and the spotted cow- 
slip refused to open in the hard and frost-bound mead- 
ows. 

Methuen Place, the seat of one of the oldest families 
in the county, but at the same time of a family whose 
annals were unknown to fame, stood in a hollow facing 
the wide upland sweep of its magnificent park, and 
served as half-way house between the substantial 
borough of Crawford on the one side, and the county 
town of Tri Chester on the other. It was a low, pictur- 
esque pile of massive gray stone, bearing the weather- 
stains and minute moss-growths of generations upon its 
hoary front, and with the deep angles of its solid walls 
and the arch of its ponderous entrance-gates covered 
with the lustrous green of magnolias and myrtles. 

But in the late afternoon of the day when Philip Me- 
thuen first saw it, its aspect was singularly forlorn and 
depressing. He had driven in a hack-fly from the station 
at Trichester, and was chilled to the bone by his long 
journey through the biting air, as well as by a sense of 
discomfiture at the seeming absence of all welcome or 
expectation of his coming. 

In reply to his inquiry as to whether there were any 
servant or carriage waiting for him from Methuen Place, 
the station-master had answered in the negative, with a 
certain dry significance which somehow brought the 
color into his cheek ; and the man whose vehicle he had 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


9 


chosen, addressing the rubicund driver of the “ Antelope” 
railway 'bus, just on the point of departure with its 
scanty freight, said, with a wink of intense significance, 
as he took his seat on the box and picked up the reins : 

“ If the gen’elman knowed Sir Giles’ grays as well as 
you and I do. Bill, he might have saved hisself the 
trouble of asking the question.” 

He was quite prepared under encouragement to have 
given Philip the most minute information respecting his 
uncle’s establishment, habits, and reputation; but that 
did not suit the young man’s mood or temper, although 
he was not able to defend himself from the damaging 
impression instinctively received. As they entered the 
park and approached the house, he perceived that every 
blind was down, giving a blank and dismal effect to the 
whole fagade. The flower-beds were empty of flowers, 
the soil lying under heaps of garden compost, and. the 
lawns, under the scorching east winds, looked brown and 
impoverished. Not a gleam of color or suggestion of 
warmth, natural or human, met his eyes, nor did there 
seem any stir of life about the premises — not even the 
bark of a dog was to be heard. But then it was to be 
remembered the house contained the dead heir and the 
dead hopes of its owner. 

The driver had made his way up the broad, shallow 
stone steps which led to the principal entrance, and had 
knocked heavily at the door, muttering, “ It was allers 
desp’rate hard to rouse ’em.” 

He was going to repeat the summons, when Philip 
jumped out to stop him ; the sound seemed like sacri- 
lege on that gloomy portal. 

“ We will wait a minute,” he said; “ perhaps you don’t 
know there is a death in the house?” 

The man grinned. “ Don’t know that Mark Methuen 
is dead !” he answered ; “ all the county knows that well 
enough, and knows, too, that the old man and his son 
hated each other like poison. No one would ever have 
taken Atm for a gentleman, whichever way up you tried 
it. He was a rum ’un,” he added, reflectively, “ he was !” 

At this moment the door was suddenly thrown open, 
and Philip stepped for the first time over the threshold 
of his ancestral home. 

From a boy he had listened to the querulous, embit- 
tered complaints of his mother at her banishment from 
all share of the family distinction and privileges, and the 


10 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


shameful injustice accruing-, not so much to younger 
sons as to younger sons’ wives. Her conceptions of the 
glories of Methuen Place, and of her brother-in-law’s 
social importance, were probably exaggerated ; but still 
this was the house where generation had succeeded gen- 
eration, and where his own father had first drawn the 
breath of life. 

Words would be inadequate to describe the strength 
of the yearning with which the boy, mocked and misun- 
derstood by his surviving parent, had regarded his 
father’s memory ; and the prospect of so soon seeing one 
so closely allied to him in blood as Sir Giles Methuen 
caused him a profound secret agitation. 

There was something of this indicated in the tone in 
which he inquired after his uncle of the staid, elderly 
woman who had advanced to meet him as he entered the 
house ; and it may have had the effect of causing some 
softening of expression on her part, combined as it was 
with that easy graciousness of accost which is all but in- 
variably wanting in the manners of young Englishmen 
to their inferiors, and a smile the sweetness of which 
would have redeemed the ugliest face, and was even the 
crowning charm of his. 

“ Sir Giles keeps his room strictly since — since what 
has happened,” she said; “ but he gave orders, if you ar- 
rived before dark, that you were to be shown upstairs to 
him at once. I will take you to your room, sir, and 
come back for you as soon as I have given notice. I 
dare say you would much rather have dressed and dined 
first; but Sir Giles is not one to think much of these 
things, Mr. Methuen.” 

“ Neither do I. I shall be quite ready when you come 
for me.” 

He followed her up the broad, shallow oak staircase — 
almost as black as ebony with age and friction, and the 
massive balustrade of which was carved at its junction 
and terminal points with elaborate grotesqueness — across 
a wide corridor, set with numerous windows on the one 
side, commanding a view of the park, and which were 
faced by doors on the other. 

There was an effect of old-world decaying luxury in 
the worn carpet which covered the floor, the finely-har- 
monized colors and fabric of which proclaimed the work 
of some Eastern loom — in the heav}^ tapestried draperies 
at the windows, and the old velvet-padded seats below. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


II 


The family coat of arms, with the traditional badge of 
its rank, were emblazoned in the upper lights of each, 
and dim portraits of long-deceased ancestors filled up 
the panels of the wall. 

The bed-chamber into which he was shown was on the 
same scale of ancient, ponderous dignity. Bed, couches, 
and windows were hung or covered with superb old 
tapestry, and the black-oak floor displayed the same 
costly though decaying covering as the corridor outside. 
There were carved chairs and presses in the apartment 
which a modem aesthete would have estimated at half a 
king’s ransom; and the high mantel, curiously niched 
and carved, would incontinently have been removed by 
him to one of the reception-rooms of the house. 

The woman who had introduced herself to Philip as 
Mrs. Gibson, the housekeeper of the establishment, at- 
tended him upstairs with a mixed air of solicitude and 
formality. On entering the room she indicated to him 
certain arrangements for his comfort, which seemed to 
prove her undisputed control over the household, and 
left him with a broad hint to be quick at his toilet, as 
'' Sir Giles was well-nigh worn out with trouble, and 
never very patient at the best of times.” 

The young man’s preparations were so rapid that he 
was standing waiting before the window which over- 
looked the principal gardens, observing the dreary effect 
of a pretty Italian fountain, the basin of which was dry 
and moss-grown, and the conch of the water-god a re- 
ceptacle for drifting leaves, when the expected summons 
came, and a few moments more saw him ushered into 
his uncle’s presence. The room was a small study, lined 
with books from floor to ceiling, but otherwise somewhat 
barely furnished. A huge easy-chair was placed near 
one of the windows with its back to the door, and the 
figure of the man sitting in it was so frail and bowed as 
to be quite' invisible to any one entering the room. 

Mrs. Gibson, having opened the door and pronounced 
the name of the visitor, had instantly retreated, closing 
it carefully behind her. 

Philip hesitated a moment ; then he saw a thin white 
hand, with long, supple fingers, grasp the table which 
stood close to the chair, and Sir Giles Methuen, raising 
himself with evident difficulty, faced round and con- 
fronted his nephew. 

The figure was insignificant, as we have said, and the 


12 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


delicately-featured face was prematurely worn and old; 
but the eyes which shone under the thick, gray brows re- 
tained their fire and penetration, and there was nothing 
senile in the hard expression of the firm, thin lips. 

There was neither affection nor even benevolence in 
his scrutiny — it was simply an investigation ; and after a 
few moments he sank back again into his chair with a 
sort of stifled groan, whether produced by bodily or 
mental distress seemed doubtful. 

The young man, though certainly not encouraged to 
do so, came forward, and after his foreign fashion took 
his uncle’s hand and put it to his lips. 

“I am come,” he said, “because you commanded me 
to come. Y ou cannot be more grieved for the cause than 
I am.” 

Sir Giles shivered a little as if cold, and continued to 
gaze at him intently. 

“ There is not a line of your figure nor a feature of 
your face which recalls my brother,” he said, “ which is 
to your advantage unquestionably, for the Methuens 
were never a handsome race. No doubt you are like the 
woman he married.” A sneer sat on his lips as he spoke. 
“ I think I can trust my memory sufficiently to be sure 
upon the point ; but your voice, Philip Methuen, would 
be enough to convince me of your identity. Say some- 
thing else.” 

“ Shall I say how sorry I am to find you so weak and 
ill?” 

“ Also so old and unprepossessing? Yet hardly that! 
When was the failure of the man in possession otherwise 
than welcome to the heir?” 

Philip smiled. “ That is only from the lips outward ; 
you do not really believe your brother’s son is capable 
of such a feeling. Also you must be aware that I have 
planned my life on very different lines. I want nothing 
that you can give me. Even now I am come out of re- 
spect due to the head of my family — more to listen to 
what your wishes are than with the purpose of yielding 
to them. That will be a question for debate.” 

Sir Giles’ keen glance quickened. 

“ ’Pon my soul, nephew, you lose no time in taking the 
initiative ! I think we will waive the discussion of your 
future till the natural heir, lying upstairs, is buried. It 
would have been more seemly if you had begun by offer- 
ing me your condolences, instead of assuring me of your 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


13 


obstinacy and independence. Have you lost sight of the 
fact that I am a father bereaved of his only son?” 

Philip looked at him. There was no suggestion of 
tenderness or pain in the expression of the eyes that met 
his, or in the sharp ring of the metallic voice. He felt 
ashamed for the man who seemed to repudiate the first 
instincts of humanity, and a pang of pity for the dead, 
who, though cut off in the flower of his youth, left no 
regrets behind him. 

“ It is just because I have not lost sight of that,” he 
answered, “ that I have no condolence to offer. I am 
afraid to touch a wound so deep and so recent.” 

A dark, reluctant flush came over the old man’s face. 

“ What can you know?” he said, in a dull, suppressed 
voice. “ But I am prepared to tell you that your con- 
sideration is overstrained. It is true I have lost my 
only son, but it is not true that I am bereaved. I am 
shocked, shaken, thrown out of gear with the future, 
when I thought time and I had. settled our accounts. 
But the feeling at bottom is this — that an anxiety which 
has corroded my life is removed ; that I shall once more 
hold up my shamed head and look the world in the face ; 
that the burden of degradation and hopeless misery 
which was imposed by the man who is dead, has unex- 
pectedly slipped off my shoulders. You are scandalized?” 

There was an intensity of restrained emotion in Sir 
Giles’ look and speech which overcame the instinctive 
repulsion with which Philip listened to him. 

“At least,” he said, “it is an immunity dearly pur- 
chased, and while life lasted there was hope of amend- 
ment and pardon.” 

“ There was none,” interrupted Sir Giles harshly — 
“ none other than that thorns should bring forth grapes, 
or corruption incorruption. His has been no ordinary 
career of youthful profligacy — the mere wasting of his 
substance with harlots — but a thorough identification 
with the lowest and basest forms of ill-living. There 
was not one spark of generous Are in his blood ; not one 
sound spot in his soul to redeem the general leprosy. I 
groaned daily under the fear that he would carry our 
name into the felon’s dock ; and I deliberately thank God 
that his power to inflict torment has been cut short. I 
slept last night better than I have slept since he was a 
child, incapable of doing wrong because incapable of free 
action.” 


14 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Then, with a quick change of tone and glance, he 
added : 

“ It may be, nephew, that your virtue has the same 
security — a predestined priest is still under authority.’' 

“ I have no reason to think myself different from other 
men. I am quite prepared to grant that my life has been 
so carefully guarded that no merit attaches to my obedi- 
ence. More than that, the time can never come for me 
when I shall cease to think myself under authority.” 

“ So far good; to-morrow I shall put your docility to 
the test. Now go downstairs and have some dinner; 
and I hope the necessity of dining alone won’t spoil your 
appetite. I have long ceased to play the host. For the 
rest, we will not meet again till to-morrow’s ceremony 
— it will be a very brief one. The church is only a 
stone ’s-throw from the house, and the vault was opened 
for its prey days ago. The coffin will be borne by the 
servants of the house. A few friends will attend for de- 
cency’s sake. You and I, as nearest of kin, will be chief 
mourners, Philip.” 

The young man inclined his head ; then said, with some 
hesitation, “ I do not know the English customs, but if 
it were possible for me to see my cousin, I should like 
to do so.” 

“ It is not possible — the coffin was nailed down forty- 
eight hours after death. You know that he died in the 
hunting-field — by a sort of irony of fate the only field 
where he ever distinguished himself. A sharp flint cut 
the sensitive hoof of his horse ; the animal plunged sud- 
denly and threw him over his head. When they picked 
him up he was quite dead — his neck was broken.” 

“ God rest his soul !” was Philip’s instinctive response. 

Sir Giles looked at him sharply, then his face twitched 
and softened. 

“ The furnace will need to be heated seven times 
hotter before his purgation is attained ; but if you hold 
that prayers of yours or others may help the process, do 
not balk your charity! They shall take you to the 
chapel after you have dined. We will say good-night 
now.” 

He waved his hand and dismissed him. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


15 


CHAPTER IIL 

“ Naught is more honorable to a knight, 

Nor better doth beseem brave chivalry, 

Than to defend the feeble in their right, 

And wrong redress in such as wend awry.” 

—Spenser. 

As Philip passed out of the corridor, Mrs. Gibson came 
forward to meet him. It looked as if she had been wait- 
ing for him. 

“ I will show you the way downstairs, sir,” she said. 

Dinner is laid in the breakfast-room, and you must be 
sorely in need of something to eat. It is my duty to 
look after you to-night.” 

She preceded him as she spoke, and opened the door 
of an apartment where a large fire was blazing in the 
wide chimney : the incandescent mass of glowing coal 
had just been replenished, producing that union of in- 
tense heat and exhilarating flame which is an English- 
man’s ideal of comfort. In its cheery influence a small 
round table was set, with all the accessories of fine linen, 
translucent glass, and highly burnished silver, which he 
also holds to be indispensable for decent existence, but 
which struck young Methuen’s eyes as elaborate and un- 
necessary. Almost immediately on his appearance the 
old butler of the house entered and deposited on the 
table a small silver tureen, from which an exquisite 
aroma issued, of the singular virtue of which I am bound 
to confess that Philip was too little of an epicure to form 
an adequate estimate. 

” Sir Giles desired me to ask what wine you preferred, 
Mr. Methuen,” said the man, with an air in which defer- 
ence and patronage were curiously balanced. 

I have no choice, for I never drink any,” was the an- 
swer, which was received in solemn, undemonstrative 
silence, but with secret astonishment and displeasure. 
A Methuen who did not appreciate the traditional glories 
of the ancestral cellars was unworthy of his birthright. 
Also he observed, as he rigidly fulfilled the functions of 
his office, that the young man was an indifferent and un- 
appreciative eater, upon whom the delicacies of the cui- 
sine, which the fastidiousness of Sir Giles had wrought 
to a point of perfection not often found in remote coun- 
try-houses, were signally thrown away. He evidently 


i6 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

ate because he was hungry, and he was moderate to the 
point of provocation. 

In fact, it was a positive relief to Philip when the 
formal and elaborate little dinner was brought to an end. 
Neither the excitement of his introduction to his uncle 
nor the distraction of interests in which he had become 
so suddenly involved sufficed to banish from his mind 
for many consecutive minutes the eager, pallid face and 
desperate hopelessness of poor Lewis Trevelyan, and 
the pledge which he had himself given — a pledge he was 
already considering how best to fulfil. He was quite 
resolved that nothing should keep him at Methuen Place 
beyond the day of the funeral, and had calculated that 
by travelling day and night he might reach P'lorence 
early on the Saturday morning ; but in that case he must 
see the vicar’s wife, if possible, this same evening; to- 
morrow would probably be beyond his control. But a 
good many hours still stretched between him and any 
reasonable time for going to bed ; and, unconventional 
as the season was for a visit to a stranger, the nature of 
his business and the hard pressure of circumstances 
would surely be sufficient excuse. He rang the bell, 
and it was answered, as he had hoped, by Mrs. Gibson. 

“ I am going out,” he said, “ if you will be good enough 
to direct me to the vicarage at Skeffington, and will ex- 
plain to Sir Giles, if he should make any inquiries after 
me, that I had important business to transact there. 
Otherwise it will not be necessary to mention my ab- 
sence.” 

A cloud of disapprobation darkened her face. 

“The vicar is not at home, sir,” she answered, “and 
the house is two good miles from Methuen Place. Sir 
Giles and Mr. Sylvestre do not visit, and it would vex 
him very much that you should go there. Excuse the 
liberty I take, Mr. Methuen, but to our notions it would 
not seem proper that you should be paying visits before 
the funeral, and a little odd, too, seeing we all under- 
stood that you were a stranger in these parts. Be- 
sides ” 

She stopped short, then added, with a dull flush of 
color rising in her sallow cheek, and encouraged by a 
second glance at Philip, “ Besides, we did all hope that 
you would please the master, and this would be going 
contrary to him at once.” 

“ I am very sorry, but this business of mine which 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 17 

takes me to the vicarage is not a matter of choice. I 
shall be quite prepared to tell Sir Giles all about it if he 
should care to listen. To-night is the only opportunity 
I should have ; and it is not the vicar, but Mrs. Sylvestre, 
I want to see. Is she likely to be at home at this hour? 
Do you know her? I should be glad if you would speak 
to me frankly.” 

Mrs. Gibson drew up her tall, spare form with an air 
of dignity impugned. 

“ Living in Skeffington for the last forty years, as I 
have done, it’s a need-be that I should know her, though 
few and far between are the words we have exchanged 
with each other. She knows every man, woman, and 
child in the parish, and she’s more vicar than the vicar 
himself. She is a masterful woman, Mr. Methuen, with 
a hard, cold eye and a heart to match. Not a bad sort 
altogether, I dare say, but a woman whom love never 
comes near. She has three nice little girls ; and I believe 
she and the little governess they keep work very hard 
at their education, but they don’t look happy, poor 
things ! Another thing where she has hurt and angered 
the master is that she is dead against all Catholics ; she 
has even talked to Sir Giles himself, and he is too much 
of a gentleman to be inide to her. There are plenty of 
charities connected with this parish, but she takes care 
no one outside her own church gets the benefit of them. 
She is terribly hard on Dissenters and Papists^ as she 
calls us. If you want really to know what Mrs. Sylvestre 
is, I could tell you some sad stories ” 

“Not now,” said Philip, “or I shall have no courage 
left to go and see her, and nothing else remains to be 
done. Please send me some stable-boy or helper as 
guide to the house, as I cannot spare the time to lose my 
way.” 

It was nearly eight o’clock when Philip found himself 
on the road to Skeffington. Had the season been a 
normal one, and the daylight served, he would have en- 
joyed as fair a sample of Dorset landscape, as he walked 
between the hedgerows which bounded his path, as he 
could possibly have desired. Beyond, on the right hand 
and on the left, stretched corn or pasture lands, almost 
to the verge of the horizon, save where the monotony 
was broken by a clump of farm-buildings, or some apple- 
orchard, shimmering, phantom-like, in the semi-dark- 
ness; or again, by a gleam of the not-far-distant sea, 


i8 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

and of a broken line of lofty hills, the crests of two of 
which served as landmarks to home-coming vessels. 

The straggling village when reached surprised Philip, 
both in regard to its extent and its unsightliness ; and 
even a hasty glance served to discover unmistakable in- 
dications of squalid poverty and degradation, which 
seemed to him strangely incongruous in such close con- 
nection with the parsonages and country-seats of rural 
England. 

The boy who had come with him as guide pointed out 
a picturesque, ivy-covered house, enclosed by a high 
wall overgrown with greenery. 

“ This’s the vicarage,” he said, touched his hat, and 
retired. 

Hastily turning round, Philip had time to perceive 
that the boy did not return on his steps as he had heard 
Mrs. Gibson charge him to do, but disappeared within 
the. portal of a cheery-looking tavern, the swinging sign- 
board of which announced it to be the “ Methuen Arms.” 

Doubtless other causes than a landlord’s negligence 
and a priest’s apathy went to swell the sum total of 
Skeffington’s immorality. 

The entrance-door to the vicarage was low and wide, 
and roofed by a heavily -timbered, old-fashioned portico ; 
within its shelter stood, in ugly green-wire stands, some 
evergreen shrubs and flowering plants. A curious heavy 
bell-rope hung outside the lintel, and seemed to solicit 
an appeal. Philip rang it more than once, in spite of a 
fair exercise of patience, before the door was opened, 
and even then the maid-servant barred his entrance 
rather than invited it. 

To his inquiries whether Mrs. Sylvestre were at home, 
she answered with evident reluctance in the affirmative, 
but begged to know what his business might be, before 
allowing him to advance farther than the hall. Philip 
took out a card and wrote a few explanatory words upon 
it, doubting very much whether they would be legible, 
as there was no light beyond that supplied by the now 
moon-illumined twilight ; the lamp which hung from the 
lobby ceiling not being utilized. 

He stood for some time, with increasing anxiety as to 
the lateness of the hour and the seeming impropriety of 
his absence at such a time from his uncle’s house, when 
suddenly a rush of voices reached his ears. Down the 
dim staircase came the sound of a child’s voice, weeping 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


19 


bitterly, and protesting feebly throngh its sobs ; the high, 
clear notes of an angry woman’s shrill but restrained 
treble, and the low, rich baritone of a young man’s 
voice. 

“ I assure you, Mrs. Sylvestre, the fault is mine, en- 
tirely mine ! and yet I had not the least idea we were 
eating forbidden fruit, Dolly and I. Please don’t scold 
her any more — I repeat I led her into mischief.” 

Then came a tender wail : “ Indeed, indeed, mam- 
ma ” interrupted by a voice of judicial severity : 

“ Scold is a word scarcely to be applied to a mother’s 
distressed and reasonable displeasure. I never scold, 
Mr. Earle ! Go to your room, Dorothy, and we will renew 
the subject to-morrow, when you will have slept upon 
your disobedience, and be better prepared to admit the 
justice of your punishment.” 

Then came another burst of distress, which, in its in- 
tensity, almost brought Philip to the foot of the stairs. 

“ Oh, please, mamma, forgive me to-night — do forgive 
me to-night! I shan’t sleep a wink!” 

At this crisis the servant had evidently ventured to 
approach with his own card, for Mrs. Sylvestre turned 
sharply round upon her. 

“ What is it, Janet? Don’t you know better than ” 

And then a sudden silence fell. Philip heard the 
child’s retreating footsteps back to her room, a whis- 
pered word from the masculine voice, and the next mo- 
ment a young man had precipitated himself down the 
few shallow stairs, and would have come into collision 
with him had he not avoided the sudden charge by a 
swift movement of retreat. 

“ Who the devil are you?” cried the voice, with an ac- 
cent of intense irritation, due rather to the recent inci- 
dent than the present surprise. 

“ I beg ten thousand pardons !” he hastened to add, 
having now set light to the hall-lamp from a box of 
matches he produced from his pocket, and discovered his 
mistake. “ I thought no one could stand on that hall- 
mat but one of the Skeffington paupers — a gentleman is 
so rare a visitor here that Janet, as you see, has no ex- 
perience to fall back upon. Do let me repair her mis- 
take, and take you into a sitting-room. Perhaps you 
don’t know the vicar is away from home at present?” 

It was not often that Adrian Earle roused himself to 
so much active intervention on behalf of a stranger, or 


20 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


that his languid tones assumed so much charitable vi- 
vacity ; but the meagre glimmer of the hall-lamp fell di- 
rect upon Philip Methiien’s person, and he received at 
that moment the impression which abode with him more 
or less through all the years of their subsequent inter- 
course. It was not so much the attraction of beauty of 
feature or perfection of physical development that 
touched him, though few were more susceptible to ex- 
ternal influences of the kind, but something in the ex- 
pression and general aspect that won his immediate rec- 
ognition and regard. At least, he had never seen one 
of his own age and sex who moved him so strongly. 

Love at first sight is an accepted possibility, but may 
not friendship also be as swift and tender in its incep- 
tion.? When the “ soul of Jonathan was knit with the 
soul of David,’* speech had not even passed between 
them. There is no deeper and no diviner mystery in 
being than the sense of spiritual kinship which suddenly 
stirs and quickens in two human souls, brought perhaps 
for the first time together, and ignorant of the past rec- 
ord of each. 

“ I am Adrian Earle,” he said, and held out his hand. 
“ Will you tell me your name.?” But before the other 
could answer, Mrs. Sylvestre came forward and broke 
the colloquy. 

“ I have the pleasure of bidding you good-night, Mr. 
Earle,” she said; and then, addressing the stranger in a 
tone of freezing distance, as if afraid of some burst of 
familiarity on his part, “ If you are really Mr. Philip 
Methuen, will you be good enough to follow me?” 

A few moments more and they were seated opposite 
each other in a fireless room ; but Philip was conscious 
of a momentary slackening of interest in his embassy, 
and that his attention was fixed upon the closing house- 
door and retreating steps upon the gravel. 

When he had recovered himself, he found that Mrs. 
Sylvestre sat awaiting his communication with a de- 
meanor so deliberately expressionless as to tax the cour- 
age of any advocate. 

He half doubted, as he looked at her, if any fate might 
not be happier for Anna Trevelyan than an asylum with 
her aunt. Contact, he perceived, would mean conflict. 

“I understand from your card,” said Mrs. Sylvestre, 
referring to it, and breaking the awkward silence from 
some instinct of courtesy, ” that I have the honor of a 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


21 


visit from Mr. Philip Methuen, and that he excuses the 
unusual hour he has chosen on the plea of business of 
pressing importance. I own I am at a loss to understand 
how any matter that concerns him can concern me. If 
you are the bearer of compliments or concessions from 
Sir Giles Methuen, my husband is not at home to reply 
to them.” 

“No,” said Philip, quietly; “m3’’ message is to you 
only, and it is from your brother, Lewis Trevelyan.” 

He had calculated upon her insensibility to emotion, 
and was startled by the sudden change of color and as- 
pect. 

“ Forgive my abruptness, but my time is so short that 
it must plead my excuse. I have the honor to call Mr. 
Trevelyan my friend, and I left him last Monday in a 
condition so near death that it is a question whether I 
shall find him alive on my return, even if I succeed in 
getting back to Florence by Saturday. One duty which 
has brought me to Skeffington is, as you probably know, 
to attend my cousin’s funeral; but I should have come 
without that call.” 

He paused and looked at her, as if his own sincere and 
kindly syinpathy would evoke hers. 

“ You are waiting for me to ask you why you W’ould 
have come, and I do ask you. What is the connection 
between your friendship for Lewis Trevelyan and your 
visit to me? Has he made no provision for his funeral 
expenses? Does he clinch the dishonor of a life by this 
last appeal to a sister’s charity?” 

Her cheeks burned with a crimson spot of color, and 
her large, prominent blue eyes scintillated with passion ; 
but it was passion held well under control. Philip met 
her gaze with one of equal steadiness, until she flinched 
a little under the stem displeasure of his face. 

“Words like yours,” he said, “are such as we regret 
on our death-bed ; and they should close this interview, 
Mrs. Sylvestre, if it were a time to consult personal feel- 
ing. But I do not lose sight of the fact that you have 
suffered deeply through your brother, and that the bet- 
ter feelings of the heart are often belied by hasty words. 
If you could see him as I saw him last, I think you would 
blot out his transgressions against you, and consent to 
relieve his mind of the cruel anxiety he feels on behalf 
of his daughter Anna. I am come here to ask you if you 
will take her home when her father is dead.” 


22 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


A curious expression, which baffled him, came over 
her face. 

“ I like your courage and your directness,'" she said. 
“ One more inmate in a poor parson’s family to feed, 
clothe, and educate is of course a matter of small consid- 
eration to an inexperienced young man like yourself. 
Am I to believe that Lewis Trevelyan sanctioned this 
appeal? that, after having robbed me of fortune and hap- 
piness, he has the effrontery to ask me to make a daily 
sacrifice for the benefit of his orphan? I decline abso- 
lutely.” 

“ He was reluctant ; but I overruled his reluctance. I 
thought the very wrongs of which you complain might 
have disposed you the more readily to do your duty, as 
having the greater virtue in the sight of God. I had the 
notion that good women welcomed sacrifice, especially 
those who have endured the discipline of motherhood ; 
at least, I thought you could not turn your back on your 
brother’s child. I still think so.” 

Every word you utter,” she answered, with concen- 
trated bitterness, “ is an offence. Put your orphan into 
some of your charitable asylums abroad! You may 
gauge the depth of my repugnance when I tell you I 
should feel no compunction at knowing she was to be 
brought up in a creed which to my mind means per- 
dition. What you say shpws me you also are ‘a holy 
Roman ; ’ but your argument has no weight with me. 
Has my brother joined your communion? It makes 
gracious provision for reprobates and sinners such as 
he.” 

“ You have pronounced its highest encomium, madam,” 
said Philip, with a smile ; “ but I regret to say he has 
not, nor has his daughter Anna been educated as a 
Catholic. To be honest, her education, both religious 
and secular, has been greatly neglected, and her char- 
acter is such that the charge of her would not be a light 
one. Mr. Trevelyan is not without friends or resources, 
and arrangements would be made to guarantee the 
guardians of his child £^100 a year.” 

“ That is a fact you should have mentioned first. If I 
report this conversation to my husband, he will advise 
me — to turn my maternal discipline to account and sac- 
rifice myself !” 

The sneer was so heartless that it very much qualified 
Philip’s satisfaction in the success of his mission. At 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


23 


the same time he recognized the possibility that Mrs. 
Sylvestre was not so bad as she chose to appear ; that 
there would be the decent restraints of social opinion 
and the probable kindness of other members of the 
family working in Anna’s behalf. He recalled with sat- 
isfaction Dorothy’s pleading voice, and the terms of 
familiar intercourse on which Adrian Earle appeared to 
be with the household. Anyway, nothing more was in 
his power. 

“ I understood you to say that the payment you men- 
tioned would be guaranteed to the guardians of the child? 
I am not in the least ashamed to own that what I refused 
to do as a matter of duty or charity, I am prepared to do 
on the score of advantage to my family.” 

Philip’s brows contracted a little. 

“ The money shall be paid half-yearly through an old- 
established bank in Paris. If you have any further sug- 
gestions to make, they shall receive due consideration.” 
He rose to take leave. “ I dare not stay any longer,” he 
added. “ Am I to understand you will receive Anna?” 
He looked round the colorless room and into the face of 
its mistress.' “ Bear with one word more, Mrs. Sylvestre. 
You do not love this girl — and, I will allow, you have 
no reason to do so — but you accept the charge of her for 
a fair pecuniary equivalent. You will be just to Anna 
Trevelyan — you who resent so strongly the injustice you 
have endured from her father?” 

Mrs. Sylvestre smiled. 

“ I will be just to Anna Trevelyan, according to my 
lights, Mr. Methuen; but my point of view is not the 
same as yours. How old is she? Describe her!” 

“ She is fifteen, well grown and healthy, intelligent 
but very ignorant, having lived a wild life in the home 
of an Italian peasant, her foster-mother, when her 
father’s health prevented him from having her with 
him.” 

“ She can read and write, I presume, and speak her 
father’s language? Is she a beauty?” 

“ The time is not yet come to decide the point, and I 
am no judge. She can certainly read and write.” 

There was a pause, during which Philip was conscious 
of a searching examination. 

“ You are at St. Sulpice, educating for the priesthood, 
and have obtained leave of absence for your cousin’s 
funeral.^” 


24 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ That is so,” he answered, “ and there is nothing more 
to say about me. I have the honor to wish you good- 
night.” 

She returned his bow without extending her hand, and 
he found his way to the house-door unattended. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Shall we with temper spoiled, 

Health sapped by living ill, 

And judgment all embroiled 
By sadness and self-will. 

Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is?” 

— M. Arnold. 

Mrs. Gibson met him as he re-entered his uncle’s 
house. 

“ Sir Giles has asked for you, Mr. Methuen, and I was 
obliged to say you were gone out, sir, and where. He 
was terribly put out. I am afraid he will get no sleep 
to-night. It is a bad beginning !” 

“ Shall I go to him? I can put all right with a word.” 

“ No ; he gave orders he was to be told when you came 
in, but that he did not wish to see you. He asked if you 
had been to the chapel.” 

“ I am ready to go there at once, if you will show me 
the way. I suppose,” he added, with some hesitation, 
“ that the watch has been duly kept?” 

“ The servants have relieved each other,” she an- 
swered, “ and the Sisters of the Good Shepherd at Tri- 
chester have attended as they could ; but they are few, 
and their duties are heavy. Father Francis came a few 
hours ago, and has undertaken to stay till morning,” 

They crossed the full length of the house, and de- 
scended a short flight of stone steps, which led to the 
small, isolated structure which had been fitted up and 
consecrated as a chapel more than two hundred years 
ago. It was now seldom used except as a mortuary. 
Giles Methuen had never been devout, and a priest had 
long ceased to form part of his domestic establishment. 
They entered the chapel together ; it was heavily draped 
with velvet hangings, which had grown old in the ser- 
vice of the family. All light was excluded but that 
which was supplied by the huge wax-tapers burning on 
the bare, neglected altar, and at the head and foot of the 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


25 


coffin, which was covered by a volnminons velvet pall, 
with tarnished fringe of bullion, and the arms of the 
house emblazoned in gold. 

A man knelt at the foot of the coffin, supporting the 
weight of his body against it. He did not stir as they 
entered ; Philip perceived at a glance that he was pro- 
foundly asleep. 

He had dismissed Mrs. Gibson on the threshold, and 
as soon as the door had closed upon her, he went up and 
surveyed the figure. His feeling was that of indignant 
reprobation as toward a sentinel found sleeping at the 
post of duty ; but his anger softened as he saw the gray 
hairs, frail figure, and worn face of the defaulter. 

“ Doubtless the spirit was willing, but the flesh is 
weak,” he said to himself, “ and I am here to supply his 
lack of service.” 

He looked down at the length and breadth of the coffin, 
which testified to the fine physical development of the 
dead, and recalled the terrible words spoken by the un- 
loving father that day. 

Death in the bloom and prime of life always seems an 
anachronism or a penalty, especially when the blow has 
fallen without warning. But to have met such a fate 
unlamented — to be consigned without reluctance to the 
grave — was a moral ignominy against which the young 
man’s sensitive soul cried out. 

He drew his breviary out of his pocket, and knelt 
down to commence his night’s vigil with a religious fer- 
vor which amounted almost to passion. 

Even death was no barrier between the guilty soul 
and the mercy of its Judge, so long as the prayers of 
saints and priests intervened: only he, alas! was but 
half-way to the divine privileges of the priesthood. 

The next day the blinds were drawn up, and the win- 
dows thrown open at Methuen Place, admitting the keen 
spring air and reluctant sunshine. In the household 
arrangements there seemed a certain eagerness to wipe 
out all traces of the dead man who had just been laid to 
rest among his ancestors. The bed-chamber he had oc- 
cupied when alive was already in the hands of the house- 
maids, Mrs. Gibson herself superintending their w^ork, 
and placing carefully under lock and key, or otherwise 
hiding from sight, all the personal belongings of Mark 
Methuen. 


26 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


These were of a kind which justified such haste. 
First came scores of female photographs, many of which 
bore the autograph of presentation upon them, ranging 
from the modified offence of vapidity or effrontery 
through the complete circle of provocative indecency. 

Betting manuals and P'rench novels of the lowest kind 
were the only literature which lay ready to hand on the 
shelves and available surfaces of the room ; while there 
was something curious in the accumulation of cigar- 
cases, pocket-books, and receptacles for cards, letters, 
fuses, and so forth — most of which were more costly and 
ornate than a man is accustomed to buy for himself. 
Possibly there was a link of connection between them 
and the originals of some of the photographs : they may 
have represented the return for wasted health, wealth, 
and character. 

Sir Giles Methuen had borne his part during the fune- 
ral service with great dignity and composure. If the 
tender grief of the bereaved father were lacking, there 
was a far more poignant anguish in the consciousness 
that such grief was impossible. Every phrase of relig- 
ious submission or aspiration — the devout formulas 
which imply mental distress and suggest consolation, 
the condolences offered by friends (thoroughly acquaint- 
ed with the facts of the case) with the conventional air 
of pity and sympathy — were each and all a separate stab 
to the sensitive heart of the proud old man. He ex- 
cused himself from the luncheon which was served on 
their return from the chapel, but not before he had pre- 
sented Philip to them as his nephew and heir, and 
begged that they would look upon him as his represen- 
tative at the table. 

As soon as he had left the room, the mental atmos- 
phere brightened — the air of decorous depression and 
gravity disappeared, and a general sense of relief re- 
stored each man to his natural character. Condolences 
were exchanged for congratulations, and bumpers filled 
and emptied to Philip Methuen’s good fortune. 

“ The king is dead ! Long live the king !” cried Sir 
Walter Earle, a baronet whose ancestors had fought be- 
side Harold at Hastings, and whose honor had been kept 
up until the present generation by a race of warriors. 
“ But how is it we are welcoming him for the first time 
to-day?” 

The tone and glance conveyed a compliment. He 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


27 


was a much-travelled man of the world, to whom life 
and society had been both a career and a success, and his 
practiced eye saw in Philip welcome marks of distinc- 
tion and individuality. 

“ Come.” he added, “you must pledge us in return. 
We have left all our regrets in the Methuen vault, and 
are prepared to be on the best of terms with the new 
heir.” 

Philip hesitated; then said, as he touched his glass 
with his lips : 

“ I hope you won’t discredit my gratitude because I 
acknowledge your kindness in water. I never expected 
to find myself in this position, and have had no training 
for it. But — did my uncle never speak of me to any of 
his friends? Do you know nothing about me?” 

“ Beyond the fact that a nephew existed, we knew very 
little,” replied Sir Walter, smiling. “ The truth is, that 
I was your father’s friend in the old times, and ventured 
to resent the treatment he received from his brother at 
his marriage ; naturally, he has not made me his confi- 
dant.” 

“ My father’s friend !” repeated Philip, his whole face 
alight with sensibility. “ If at some future time you 
will talk to me about him, I shall be more grateful than 
words can express.” 

“ The sooner the better, my dear fellow. You speak 
with his voice, which is another claim upon my good- 
will. But where have you been in hiding all these years? 
Yours are not the manners of Oxford or Cambridge, and 
yet it is evident your mother has done her duty in your 
education.’’ 

“ I was six years in England, after my father’s death, 
under the charge of one of his old college friends. 
Since that time I have been at the Seminary of St. Nich- 
olas in Paris, then some years at Issy, and the last five 
at St. Sulpice.” 

“ At St. Sulpice ! I thought that was only an institu- 
tion for priests?” 

“ And my destination is the priesthood.” 

There was a general movement of amused astonish- 
ment. 

One man remarked, caressing his well-trained mus- 
tache, and gazing at Philip as if he had been some lusus 
naturce: 

“ It seems almost as odd in these days for a man to 


28 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


talk seriously of going in for the priesthood as it would 
for her Majesty to announce her intention of touching 
for the king’s evil !” 

“ It seems?” repeated Philip, quietly — “ that is, from 
your point of view. To me and many others it would be 
hard to find a point of resemblance between an act of 
ludicrous assumption and the solemn choice of a profes- 
sion.” 

” But,” interposed Sir Walter, bent upon forestalling a 
rejoinder, ” at least we are all well pleased that, since 
poor Mark has died, he died in time to prevent your 
putting the seal on your vocation. They may look else- 
where for recruits. Nature never intended that head of 
yours for the tonsure. We will show you the other side 
of the shield !” 

Philip, anxious to divert attention from himself, al- 
lowed the remark to pass unchallenged, and, after a lit- 
tle more general conversation, the guests rose to take 
leave. 

Sir W’alter Earle shook him cordially by the hand. 

“ Come and see me as soon as you can. We are a 
mixed household at Earlescourt, but not without points 
of interest. My eldest son is about your own age, and 
at once my pride and my despair ; my youngest — but it 
is hardly worth while to disclose my skeletons myself. 
One word more. I have been speculating how you and 
your uncle will get on together. It will be a new thing 
for Sir Giles to have a young man of your sort to deal 
with; take care that you don’t both make serious mis- 
takes.” 

The question of how they would get on together was 
very soon to be decided, as Philip received a summons 
from his uncle as soon as the latter had learnt that he 
was alone. 

Sir Giles Methuen was sitting in the same place as on 
the preceding day, and looked, if possible, still more 
frail and broken down. He signified to Philip to take a 
chair opposite to him, and sat examining him in silence 
for several minutes. Then he said : 

“ I suppose it is your foreign education which has de- 
prived you of the national grace of mauvais honte. Few 
young men in your position would stand investigation as 
you do. You do not even change color or look uncomfor- 
table. Ah, I am glad to see you have the grace to 
blush a little !” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


2Q 


“ If I do not look uncomfortable, I have more self- 
command than I thought, for I feel profoundly uncom- 
fortable. I have so much to say that I know it will dis- 
please you to hear.*' 

Sir Giles frowned impatiently. 

“ I never knew any one more anxious to force a quarrel 
than yourself. However, I insist upon the right my 
age and position give me to have the first word. Be- 
fore you tell me your intentions, Philip Methuen, I will 
lay before you my wishes.” 

He stopped a little as if to arrange his thoughts, then 
went on : 

“ I am, as you see, a disappointed, broken-down old 
man. I look seventy, but am, in fact, ten years younger, 
and inclined, even at this date, to retrieve my life. I 
have always considered myself more keen-sighted and 
acute than other men, and no man has blundered more. 
I have a warm heart, though no doubt you think other- 
wise ; and I have suffered in all the relations of life. My 
wife died when a girl ; of my son I need speak no more. 
My brother, whom I loved tenderly, turned against me, 
sacrificing me and all natural interests for the sake of a 
selfish, frivolous woman, who only married him under a 
mistaken notion of the contingent advantages. He paid 
his penalty, of course ; but I do not forget that she who 
spoiled his life is your mother, and that it will ill be- 
come me to abuse her to her son. As her son, you prob- 
ably know more of her capacity to make a man miser- 
able than I do, or even than your father did, who laid 
down the burden after some seven years* experience 
of it.” 

“ I am at least under the deepest obligations to my 
mother, who has carried out my father’s wishes and my 
own in the most honorable manner.” 

” Ah,” said Sir Giles, ” is that so? Your father, as you 
probably know, inherited from our mother an income of 
a year — ^300 of which he left to his wife for her 
free use and maintenance, and the remaining £200 to his 
son, to be spent on his education until he attained his 
twenty-third year, and to be at his own disposal after- 
ward. I conclude he destined you for the priesthood, 
that you might escape the rock on which he foundered. 
It was odd his scheme was willingly accepted by you ; 
things don’t often turn out like that. I presume you are 
acquainted with these particulars, and that you refer to 
3 


30 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


them when you speak of your mother’s honorable fulfil- 
ment of her engagements?” 

“ Just so. I have known the terms of my father’s will 
for many years, and they have, 1 repeat, been faithfully 
carried out. No boy could have received a more care- 
ful or unbroken education. The expenses of it must 
have often exceeded the stipulated sum, and hampered 
my mother, indeed she has sometimes complained on 
this point.” 

” She has? I am not surprised,” returned Sir Giles, 
with his keen glance following with amused interest 
every change of expression in his nephew’s face. “ You 
see she chose to live in Florence while you were in Eng- 
land or in Paris, and travelling expenses count. Also, 
as you grew up, your demands became a little exorbi- 
tant. You must not only at Issy engage a professor of 
Hebrew for your own special edification, but you must 
learn music, fencing, etching (I believe that was the 
precise hobby) of professors who came out from Paris 
to teach you. I own it is a little difficult to harmonize 
this devotion to worldly pursuits with professed re- 
nouncement of the world, and with the declared inten- 
tion of carrying the acquired gifts and graces as proofs 
of your vocation as a missionary into the Corea. But 
what is the matter, nephew? Have you any fault to 
find with the accuracy of my statement?” 

Philip had turned very pale ; his practised self-control 
was being put to a hard test. 

“ I entreat you,” he said, “ if you have things to tell me 
that I do not know, to tell me them plainly, and not in 
this vein of banter and mockery.” 

There was such a look of pain in the expression of his 
face that it touched Sir Giles more than he chose to ad- 
mit. It was evident that the young man had believed 
in his mother. 

“ I am anxious not to be misunderstood,” he returned, 
in the same tone as before, unwilling, from long habit, 
to give his natural sensibility way. “No doubt you 
gauged your own requirements correctly ; and at least 
the result is satisfactory. The money has not been 
thrown away. You are a very accomplished and pre- 
sentable young fellow, and excellently well drilled, not 
for the vocation you have chosen, but for that of diplom- 
acy, to which I have good means of introducing you. 
You shall win the triumphs I have missed.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


31 


“We will, if yon please, leave all that for the present. 
I must press for an explanation of what you have just 
now said.” 

He got up as he spoke in his agitation, and then sat 
down again, vexed that he betrayed himself so much. 
But the blow he had just received struck deep. 

Sir Giles watched him a few moments in silence. 

“ In one word, Philip, I mean this. I have defrayed 
all the charges of your education up to the present hour, 
and if they have not run on the lines I have just now 
traced, well, I refer you for the explanation to Mrs. 
Methuen. Ladies are accomplished casuists, and she 
no doubt felt justified in mulcting her husband’s elder 
brother to cover her own personal extravagances. I be- 
lieve her salon is quite a fashionable rallying-point in 
Florence.” 

Philip turned away from his uncle’s relentless scrutiny. 
There was a look almost of desperation in his face. 

“ What shall I do?” he asked. “ How can I find the 
means of restitution? It is in my heart to say I will 
never forgive her.” 

“ Don’t say it, nephew. Surely more patience and hu- 
mility should be the outcome of your spiritual discipline. 
You will shake my confidence in the Abbe de Seve ! As 
for restitution, I am going to lay claim to that. Fill the 
place that has been always empty — be a son to my old 
age, and I will reckon your mother’s frauds washed out. 
Refuse if you are so minded ; but you will discover that 
it will cost both of us dear.” 

It was evident that the young man was unable to an- 
swer immediately. After a long pause, which Sir Giles 
made no attempt to interrupt, he said : 

“ With your leave I will go away for a while ; I find I 
am una,ble to recover myself ; I may say what I shall be 
sorry for.” 

“ Very likely, but that will only be a bond of union 
between us. My dear boy, I will not let you go away — 
I had no idea this would have hit you so hard. I thought 
you knew your mother — more or less.” 

Knew his mother! He recalled the claim she had 
always made upon his gratitude on the ground of the 
education she had sacrificed so much to secure, and how 
he had met those claims. She had always resisted his 
modest appeals for an addition to the meagre sum she 
allowed him for pocket-money which the ardor of his 


32 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


charity rather than any wish for self-indulgence made so 
cruelly inadequate, and had also curtailed his necessary 
expenses within so strict a limit as to leave no margin 
for self-denial, even to his enthusiasm. Circumstances 
recurred to his memory v/hen he had besought her help 
with passionate insistence in some of the crises of his 
life, and had invariably been repulsed and reproached 
on plea of the poverty he taxed so heavily. 

Not that he much regretted these past deprivations — 
all that went for little : what did count was, that he had 
a mother whom he could not honor. Sir Giles had 
spoken of her frauds — it was an inclusive term for 
shameful acts of selfish dishonesty and imposture ; but 
to have his filial reverence thus torn up by the roots 
seemed, in the first moments of bitterness, to make all 
life barren and unprofitable. 

“Let us wind up this subject, once and for all,” re- 
sumed Sir Giles. “ Your mother has not deceived me, 
for I took means against her doing so. Wherever you 
have been. Nephew Philip, I have had a correspondent 
at headquarters who kept me closely informed of your 
goings-on. I know what money you have had to spend, 
and how you spent it. I know perfectly that a Hebrew 
professor has been on the staff at Issy and St. Sulpice 
ever since the days of good M. Olier. I know, outside 
of your professional training, that you took lessons of a 
poor, broken-down violinist, and how you earned the 
money to pay for them. I know that my good friend. 
Monseigneur d’Enghien himself, provided a fencing mas- 
ter or a master for those of the pupils destined for mis- 
sionary enterprise, on the sensible theory that the 
soldiers of the Church militant should not be worse dis- 
ciplined than their secular brothers-in-arms. I know — 
but I will spare your feelings. I must add, however, 
that the studies in etching were too heavy a draught 
upon my credulity.” 

He stopped, and looked again with mixed anxiety and 
amusement into the other’s face. 

“ I see you have the implacable temper of your race — 
you will not forgive the woman who betrays you. But 
console yourself with the knowledge that your mother 
never drew out of my purse more- than I had made up 
my mind to part with. -When your father died, I set 
apart a yearly sum for your benefit ; and I may as well 
add — for further disguise is unnecessary — that without 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


33 


strict supervision my intentions would have been frus- 
trated. Your mother resented the outlay on your educa- 
tion, though she had not to find the funds, and would 
have saved out of it if she had been allowed the chance. 
For the rest, I suffered her to stint and pinch you, re- 
garding it as a salutary discipline for an elect priest and 
missionary. Now all that is changed.” 

“ Are these facts known to any one else?” 

“ To a certain extent to our family solicitor, who made 
your father’s will, and knows its provisions have not 
been fulfilled.” 

“ And can I not make good my legal claim to £200 a 
year under the provisions of that will?” 

” Undoubtedly you can, as well as to the £z^ooo, more 
or less, which Mrs. Methuen has appropriated to her own 
purposes ; but you will have neither need nor inclination 
to do either. Let madam keep the poor income which, 
even at its best, is too small for her requirements. I 
will take care to give you an allowance at least equal to 
what you forego.” 

” It will not be the same thing. I have a right to the 
one ; the other will be an act of grace, and I shall not 
feel free to spend the money as I like.” 

” You will be absolutely free to do so,” returned Sir 
Giles, with a slightly irritated manner ; “ but may I ask 
•if, on making your escape from the immaculate restraints 
of St. Sulpice, you have already found a channel for the 
immediate disbursement of £200 a year?” 

Philip looked up, quick to detect the change of tone. 

“ Pray forgive my bad manners,” he said eagerly. ” I 
have forgotten in my distress to acknowledge the ex- 
treme kindness and forbearance you have shown both to 
my mother and me. But, as to the money — I confess I 
should greatly prefer to have my own. Three hundred 
pounds a year ought to be enough for my mother’s 
needs.” 

“ Needs, yes; but wants is another thing.” 

“ It will be well for her to restrict her wants to her 
necessities.” 

Sir Giles’s eyes flashed with amusement. 

“ You are like all the rest of the saints, nephew, bent 
upon inflicting penal chastisement upon the sinners ; but 
you ask for more than the poor lady can perform. At 
the same time, I gather that the £200 a year you bargain 
for is only to be an instalment of your own expenditure?” 


34 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


“ Yon have every right to twit me, and I have put my- 
self in a position I ought not. I will tell you all I can. 
I want this money to meet a claim to which I have 
pledged my credit, without sufficient consideration, I 
confess, but I relied on its being absolutely at my own 
disposal ; and, any way, it is pledged beyond recall. I 
had calculated that my technical education being com- 
plete, I could pay for my residence at St. Sulpice by my 
services ; or, to be more candid, I am afraid, under ex- 
treme pressure of circumstances, I had not properly con- 
sidered the consequences of being penniless. That state 
of things is not quite unknown in the college, and can 
be endured. Moreover, if I am sent to the Corea, there 
will be no more question of personal expense : there is a 
fund to meet all such charges.” 

” And it does not hurt your pride to stand in for7nd 
pauperis like this?” 

“ If it did, I should take it all as part of the day’s work. 
You will understand. Sir Giles, that my heart is set upon 
the work in question — that I have ordered my life and 
schooled my mind for this object. I am fit for no other, 
and no other has worth or purpose enough in it to give 
it value in my eyes. I have neither capacity nor incli- 
nation for politics, and should fail for certain, causing 
you more vexation and disappointment than going back 
to my old calling will do. A week ago you never pro- 
posed to know me.” 

“ A week ago I had a son. I put my veto on the priest- 
hood with whatever authority may lie with the head of 
the house and out of regard to the interests of the race. 
If you prove stubborn, the name of Methuen dies with 
you.” 

“ And if I should not prove stubborn, what guarantee 
is there that I may not be as unfortunate in my son as 
yourself? Why should you try and coerce me to a course 
of conduct which you have found fruitful of nothing but 
bitterness and dissatisfaction? As a priest or mission- 
ary, I am able to reconcile life and effort with duty ; but 
I should find it hard to do that as a man of leisure and 
society, playing at the meagre game of diplomacy in its 
lower rounds, or as a reluctant husband constitutionally 
averse to the narrow selfishness of domestic life, and 
doing my part ill in it.” 

“ My dear fellow,” answered Sir Giles, tapping him 
affectionately on the arm, “ yoh shall go back to St. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


35 


Sulpice, and lay this question before our good Arch- 
bishop for his decision. To argue with a fanatic is 
wasted breath, otherwise I would remind you that the 
vapors of the cloister so hang about you that you cannot 
see clearly in the open air. You think yourself ice be- 
cause you have never been near the fire. Simply, you 
do not know yourself. You have been taught to believe 
that duty and sacrifice have only one groove to run in. 
I tell you, if you want the widest field for their exercise, 
step outside your mystic circle into the world at large ; 
and since you seem to have been born with a singular 
taste for martyrdom, there are large possibilities that 
you may win your palm and crown in those domestic re- 
lations of which you speak so contemptuously. Further 
still, I can find you savages in Skeffington who will al- 
most compete in degradation with the yellow barbarians 
of the Corea, and who will receive your efforts iii their 
behalf with even superior brutality.” 

Philip smiled. “ I should be poaching upon Mr. Syl- 
vestre’s manor, and should be warned off at once. I 
gratefully accept, however, your permission to refer my 
decision to the Archbishop.” 

“ And you pledge yourself to abide by it?” interrupted 
Sir Giles, sharply. 

“Yes: for it will then become a simple question of 
obedience ; but it grieves me to think of your disappoint- 
ment. He will not release me.” 

“ In that case I will set you a lesson in philosophy, and 
console myself, should you be this side of the Pacific, by 
receiving my viaticum at no other hands.” 

He made a gesture of weariness, as though the inter- 
view had been too long for him, and Philip rose at once 
to go. After a little hesitation, he said : 

“ Before I leave you, I want your permission to go 
back to town to-night. I must, if possible, be in Flor- 
ence by Saturday morning.” 

“ Explain the necessity. Scarcely to bully your 
mother?” 

Philip had the gift of lucidity. In five minutes he had 
put the facts without comment before Sir Giles — that 
he had undertaken to be the ambassador of his dying 
friend to Mrs. Sylvestre, and was deeply anxious to take 
back to him the good news of his success. 

“ And that woman has consented to give her niece a 
home! Has she any fortune?” 


36 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ Barely enough to provide the equivalent which it is 
only fair for Mrs. Sylvestre to require.” 

Sir Giles pondered. “ It is a curious coincidence, but 
I suppose you are not deceiving me. Go, if you will, 
and make haste to return. You will, of course, take 
Paris on your homeward way, and will bring back to me 
Monseigneur’s dictum, whether good or bad.” He held 
out his hand to dismiss him. “ It will not be necessary 
to see me again. I am over-tired. I shall send you a 
check for your travelling expenses, on the understanding 
that I will have neither thanks nor repudiation.” 


CHAPTER V. 


“We leave behind, 

As chartered by some unknown powers 
We stem across the sea of life by night— 

The joys that were not for our UvSe designed; 

The friends to whom we had no natural right: 

The homes that were not destined to be ours/’ 

— M. Arnold. 

The interiors of the old houses on the Lung’ Arno are 
picturesque enough when flooded with sunshine and 
warmth, and every window open to the magical scene 
outside. But at night, when darkness has wiped out the 
external world, and shut the inmates within the four 
walls of the dim, resonant, chilly apartments, without 
glow of fire or flame of familiar gas, no scene can well 
be more depressing. 

In Florence, too, as in England, the weather had as- 
sumed suddenly a wintry chill, and ice-laden winds 
from the Apennines had swept down the valley of the 
Arno, which a week or two before had blossomed and 
expanded under the breath of summer. 

Wrapt in an old cloak, and shivering under the insuffi- 
cient blankets which covered him, Lewis Trevelyan was 
lying on the comfortless couch on which he now passed 
both nights and days. By his side was a little table, on 
which stood a plate of strawberries and a basin of po- 
lenta; but the chilled food bad thickened round the 
spoon, and the fruit had lost color and freshness. The 
large grate, where a Are would have been so welcome. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


37 


was filled with cypress boughs; and down the wide 
chimney the wind had so unobstructed a course as abso- 
lutely to make the sprays rustle. 

A small oil-lamp was almost lost in the gloom of the 
big chamber, and barely sufficed to show the three occu- 
pants it held. One was the sick man, as we have said ; 
another his daughter Anna, who was kneeling on a foot- 
stool at his side, with her long thin arms clasped about 
him, and her head pillowed on his breast, but in such a 
position as to enable her to see his face. Beneath his 
coverings he held one of the girl’s hands in a close grasp 
pressed against his side. 

Her posture, the weight of her body, lithe and slim as 
she was, and the stringency of her embrace, were abso- 
lutely painful to his physical sensations ; but he had no . 
wish for relief — rather he would have liked to make the 
union so close between them that the chill of death 
creeping over his own heart should be able to find the 
strong pulses of hers, that so they might have gone down 
to the grave together. Her warm fragrant breath, the 
intensity of her gaze, the passion of her embrace, the 
sharp curves of her girlish figure, had each a distinct 
stab of anguish for the man who was gazing blankly into 
her uncertain future. 

Anna had only been fetched from the country late that 
afternoon by the Sister of Mercy who w’as still in attend- 
ance upon them, and who, having found her earnest 
offers of priestly assistance repulsed and her own timid 
ministrations rejected, had withdrawn far enough away 
not to disturb the privacy of father and child, and 
watched the scene in helpless sympathy. They had 
been talking together, and he had told her of the possi- 
bility of having a home in England, and even had tried 
to make the prospect attractive in spite of his own mis- 
givings, but he was now too exhausted for speech, and 
silence had lasted for some time. 

The old Italian doctor had left instructions for his lips 
to be continually moistened with wine or milk; and the 
only sound which broke the stillness of the scene was 
the occasional movement of the good Sister, intent on 
the fulfilment of this duty. 

Trevelyan submitted to it patiently; his anxiety to 
keep life in his veins and his brain clear until the day 
dawned, and with it the faint chance of Philip Methuen’s 
arrival, was so intense as almost to bar the entrance of 


38 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


“ the fell sergeant Death." It was upon this single point 
that his soul seemed to hang — on the very threshold of 
the dim hereafter (he would have objected to the phrase 
of “ the unseen world") he did not seem to have either 
power or will to cast a fear or a hope in advance. He 
had speculated about religion, and surrendered his 
cradle-faith after a good deal of mental suffering and 
conflict ; but now, with the end in view, and the solu- 
tion of lingering doubt so close as to be measured by 
minutes rather than hours, his spiritual paralysis was 
complete. 

Would Methuen come in time to relieve the tension of 
his anxiety? was the one thought under which every 
other yearning was buried. Life was over : it had been 
• a lost game, not worth the passionate playing ; but, mis- 
erable as he was, he left a child behind him endowed 
with the same faculties of pain and pleasure, and hope- 
lessly entered for the race doomed before starting for 
defeat. Cheerless as he considered life’s outlook to be, 
it would be some mitigation of his misery to see once 
more Philip Methuen’s friendly face, hear the result of 
his mission, and any way pass on the future of the friend- 
less girl into his hands. 

As the night wore on, and the struggle for breath be- 
came more desperate, Anna had yielded to the necessity 
of changing her position in order that the dying' man 
might be raised higher on his pillows. He lay with his 
eyes fixed in the direction of the windows, watching for 
the first streak of dawn to reveal their glimmering 
squares, and straining his dulled senses to catch any 
sound of arrival. 

Soon after daylight a cruel stroke of disappointment 
fell upon him. He heard footsteps upon the threshold 
of the house, and old Assunta’s voice in garrulous greet- 
ing and surprise. A gleam of joy lighted up his sunken 
eyes, and an instinctive “ Thank God !’’ sprang to his lips. 
The next moment the old doctor, Richetti, had tapped 
at the chamber door and entered. 

“ Eh! whom have we here?’’ he asked, glancing down 
at Anna, who was crouching beside the sofa, holding her 
father’s hand in both hers, and looking ghost-like in the 
dim dawn, with her pallid face, distended eyes, and 
masses of chestnut hair floating over her shoulders. It 
was only his form of greeting, for he knew the girl well 
enough. “I am come early, good sister,’’ he went on, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


39 


addressing the silent nurse, for I knew I should be 
wanted.” 

He went closer to the couch, and shook his head om- 
inously as he met the look of wan despair in Trevelyan’s 
glazing e)^es. 

” What does he want?” he asked, testily. “ Fetch a 
priest, good sister; nay, send Assunta, and take away 
the child — this is no sight for her!” 

But neither his own strength nor hers would have 
sufficed to have loosened the convulsive embrace with 
which the girl had again flung her arms about her father, 
receiving as she did so his last strangled sigh upon her 
lips, and unconscious that her own wild cry of terror had 
added a keener pang to the ineffable stroke of dissolution. 

A few hours after Philip Methuen arrived. He was 
profoundly grieved to find himself too late ; but his grief 
was almost purely of an impersonal kind. 

Lewis Trevelyan, sick and friendless in the city of 
his adoption, had first seen Philip in his mother’s salon, 
and had been strongly attracted toward him. The 
former was, or fancied he was, but lightly considered by 
Mrs. Methuen and her circle of intimates, having in ex- 
cess the tenacious sensibility which comes from the 
sense of social declension. He fancied that they all 
knew his history, more or less — the shifts and economies 
of his daily life, the isolation and dreariness of his sur- 
roundings, and appraised him accordingly. But the 
sickness, languor, and poverty which repelled others 
seemed to serve as points of attraction to the grave and 
noble-looking youth who, he said to himself, might have 
served as model for the St. George of Donatello. Philip 
had visited him at every opportunity — had labored for 
his spiritual enlightenment with a simple directness and 
ardor which were not to be baffled by Trevelyan’s cyni- 
cism and indifference ; but his efforts had not stopped 
here. He had been prompt to fulfil any service for him, 
even those of a humble and distasteful kind, with so 
much zeal and tenderness, that Trevelyan accepted 
them, though often with pain and reluctance, as proofs 
of personal attachment, when they were in reality delib- 
erate acts of religion. 

His kindness to Anna had been in its way even greater 
than his kindness to her father, and had been rendered 
with that winning grace which appeared to those 
brought under its influence to be the result of their own 


40 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

merit or charm, but was, in fact, as much a matter of 
intention and training as a natural and spontaneous gift. 

Neither Richetti nor the gentle old Sister had been 
able to prevail on Anna to leave her dead father’s couch, 
or even restrain her passionate caresses and lamenta- 
tions, still less to take the food of which she stood in 
need. The old doctor, indeed, “ who had little finesse or 
facility with womankind,” welcomed Philip’s arrival 
with effusion. He relieved him of all sorts of responsi- 
bilities, which Richetti had felt reluctant either to accept 
or refuse. Methuen was able to tell him decisively that 
the place of interment must be the Protestant cemetery, 
and to set his mind at rest on the subject of the neces- 
sary funds. These points settled, Richetti, with a com- 
paratively light heart, undertook the somewhat vexatious 
arrangements connected with the funeral. Moreover, 
one of Philip’s first actions had been to press upon the 
physician what he considered a most munificent recog- 
nition of his long professional services, with the assur- 
ance of the deep sense of their value which Trevelyan 
had entertained, and that the sum he asked him to ac- 
cept was not beyond, but below his merits. In answer 
to the old man’s generous reluctance to deprive the lit- 
tle orphan of so much money, Philip assured him that 
her interests were fully secured — that she had influen- 
tial friends in England who would at once take charge 
of her, and that there was full provision to meet all other 
claims. 

To Anna’s bitter disappointment and distress he had 
not, in his first preoccupation, taken so much notice of 
her as she had expected. He had, indeed, spoken a few 
kind words, and gently insisted on her leaving her 
father’s side and taking the cup of chocolate and morsel 
of bread which old Assunta had brought up for her ; but 
this done, he had whispered to the Sister that it would 
be well to take her into another room and constrain her 
to lie down and rest. 

Anna’s will had hitherto ruled all those who had the 
care of her, and she never hesitated for a moment to 
resist with violence the gentle woman’s attempt to take 
her hand and lead her away, and then to rush once more 
to the side of the dismal couch and fling herself upon 
the body with renewed kisses and tears. 

“I will lie here till they take him from me,” she 
sobbed ; ” why are you so cruel as to want to part us?” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


41 


And then she burst out with a piteous, childish wail : 
“ What shall I do? what shall I do? There is no one left 
who loves me !’* 

Philip went up to her, and lifting her up in his strong 
arms, he pressed her white, tear-stained face against his 
breast. 

“ I gave my word to your father, Anna, that I would 
be your friend as long as I lived — let that comfort you a 
little !” He stooped over her and kissed her forehead. 
“ My child,’ he said, “ I love you dearly. I used to think 
you loved me too a little.” 

He could not, as he well knew, have soothed the pas- 
sionate heart more effectually. She clung to him with 
her arms locked round his neck and showered kisses 
upon his face with almost convulsive ardor. For a few 
moments he let her have her way, then gently unclasp- 
ing her hands led her back again to the Sister. 

“ Take her away now,” he said; “ for my sake she will 
do as we wish.’ 

Anna went away submissively and lay down on the 
bed as desired, and suffered the kind Sister to cover her 
up warm and put her pillows into place ; but when she 
would have kissed her, she turned away her head with 
a sharp movement of repulse. She tried to shut out the 
daylight with her hands clasped over her eyes — to shut 
out recollection and pain as well. There was only one 
way to do it : “I love you dearly,’* she repeated to herself, 
“ I love you dearly. Ah, Philip, I will love you forever !’^ 

Lewis Trevelyan was buried the next day. It was a 
civil funeral, for he had enjoined Methuen that no relig- 
ious rites should be held over his body, and such engage- 
ments are sacred. But as the young man stood by that 
unhonored grave, looking through the blinding sunshine 
on the dusty roads which now encircle the once beauti- 
ful little Protestant cemetery, he -took a stern satisfac- 
tion in the thought of the austerities by which he would 
seek to atone for this act of loyalty to his friend and dis- 
loyalty to his church. 

Riciietti, looking at the stern face, contented himself 
with a significant shrug and lifting of the eyebrows : in 
his estimate all such matters were equal. His sympa- 
thies were with Trevelyan, and his sense of young Meth- 
uen’s bondage to an effete superstition gave uncon- 
sciously an air of easy familiarity to his manner when 
he bade him good-by. 


42 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Philip’s next duty was to find some escort for Anna. 
There were nearly always visitors, either English or 
American, on the wing, who might consent to take 
charge of her. For the present he had asked the good 
Sister to take the child back with her to her convent, and 
to provide her with a suitable outfit, giving her money 
for the purpose. He also smilingly suggested that if she 
could make use of the time by introducing into Anna’s 
mind the idea of duty and submission to those in author- 
ity, it would be an acceptable and beneficent work. The 
money thus spent in Trevelyan’s behalf was part of Sir 
Giles’s munificent gift to himself ; for his examination 
of his late friend’s papers soon showed him that the out- 
standing claims were more, and the balance at his bank- 
er’s less, than stated. When everything had been set- 
tled and old Assunta’s fidelity recognized by a liberal 
gift, there was little more than thirty pounds left for 
poor Anna’s inheritance, in spite of his own supplemen- 
tary grants. 

It occurred to Philip that he would deposit this sum 
for her benefit in the English Post Office Savings Bank, 
so that she might have the little fund to fall back upon 
in case of some sudden emergency, and could please her- 
self with the sense of importance and independence the 
arrangement would give. 

He deferred the more important transaction of the 
yearly payment to Mrs. Sylvestre till he found himself 
in Paris, where he proposed to avail himself of the bank- 
ers employed by the College. He had still some anxiety 
on this point. In the prospect of his becoming a priest 
he had decided to transfer his annuity under his father’s 
will to Anna, taking his uncle into his confidence and 
engaging his interest in her behalf. For the present he 
had still enough money left to send the first half-yearly 
instalment, which should be the first thing done on 
reaching Paris. 

He gave but little consideration to the alternative of 
his position, not feeling any doubt that the appointed 
umpire on the question, the good Archbishop of Paris, 
would confirm his vocation. He had now been more 
than a week in Florence, and had not yet seen his moth- 
er, having left this painful duty to the last. If it had 
not been that he hoped she could help him to find a 
travelling companion for Anna, he doubted whether, on 
this occasion, he should have visited her at all. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


43 


CHAPTER VI. 

“I imist be cruel only to be kind; 

Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.” 

’—Hamlet, 

“ She cannot love, 

Nor take no shape nor project of affection. 

She is so self-endeared.” 

—Shakespeare. 

Mrs. Methuen occupied a portion of one of the charm- 
ing modern villas which are built on the hillside just 
beyond the city, amid the dull verdure of the cypress 
groves. A picturesque garden shut in the house, but 
the rooms had no local individuality about them ; they 
were prettily furnished, but after the taste of London or 
Paris, As Philip entered the salon, his mother was in 
the act of coming through the open window from the 
garden into the room. She held a bunch of yellow roses 
in her hand, and was dressed with her usual careful 
elaboration in an effective dark crimson gown. She was 
tall and still a beautiful woman, generally considered 
like her son ; and in respect to feature and physique this 
was true, only to render, to an acute observer, the radi- 
cal difference of aspect and expression the more striking. 

Her color changed as she recognized her visitor, and 
she betrayed her agitation by dropping some of the flow- 
ers she held. 

Is it you?” she said coldly. “ It was like your usual 
civility not to warn me of your return. What is the 
meaning of it? Have you quarrelled with Sir Giles al- 
ready?” 

Philip came forward, picked up the flowers which she 
had let fall, and in giving them again into her hand, 
raised it to his lips. But the movement was a mechani- 
cal one — he laid no kiss upon it. 

I have been more than a week in Florence, busy 
about Lewis Trevelyan’s affairs, who, you may probably 
know, is dead; but I have leave of absence from my 
uncle. I am come now not only to pay you my respects, 
but to ask you if you know of any one going to England 
who will take charge of his daughter. She is to be 
adopted by an aunt.” 

I don’t know of any one,” she answered impatiently. 


44 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ People don’t leave Florence, but come to it at this sea- 
son of the year. And what have you to do with the 
child? Good heavens!” she added, as a new thought 
struck her, and starting back as she spoke, “ of what did 
the man die? You surely have not forgotten how nerv- 
ous and susceptible I am on all points connected with 
illness; it’s as likely as not it was of some infectious dis- 
ease !” 

“ Trevelyan died of slow decline. There is no danger,” 
said Philip. He looked away from her as he spoke, lest 
his face should express too strongly the indignation he 
felt. He was perfectly aware that her selfishness was so 
absolute that she would scarcely have given herself the 
trouble to tax her memory or consult an acquaintance 
on the subject in which he was interested. He had long 
since fathomed the shallows of her nature, but until now 
he had considered there was the one redeeming trait 
of fidelity to her obligations as wife and mother. She 
had never loved him — more, she had been the goad and 
oppressor of his childhood ; but he had said to himself, 
with a pathetic determination to keep some rag of filial 
feeling, that she was honest and conscientious, and there- 
fore entitled to his respect. It was one of the heaviest 
blows he had yet sustained, to find that not even this 
consolation was left to him. 

Mrs. Methuen looked at him suspiciously. Whatever 
were her moral deficiencies, there was no bluntness of 
her faculty of observation, and she saw a change in her 
son’s bearing toward her. 

“ What is wrong with you?” she demanded again. 
*'You have been all this time in Florence, and have 
found no opportunity to come and see your mother! 
Considering that you are a slave to duty, is it not a little 
odd that you should have left me up to this moment 
without news of your uncle’s reception? I have looked 
for a letter in vain.” 

“ I admit I ought to have written — under ordinary cir- 
cumstances; but I have been deeply engaged. As for 
my uncle, he has treated me with the greatest kindness 
and liberality, but no conclusion has been reached about 
the future.” 

“No conclusion! I don’t understand. You are his 
heir, I presume? That is a conclusion already reached 
without your help or his. Are you to live with him? 
What provision does he propose? Why do you put me 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


45 


to the annoyance of asking questions it is your business 
to anticipate? Under any circumstances, now that I fill 
the place of the dowager of the family, it will be neces- 
sary to increase my miserable income.” 

She laughed softly, and glanced toward a mirror. 

“ Whenever,” answered Philip, “I find myself in pos- 
session of Sir Giles’s title and fortune, I will not fail to 
do justice to my mother ; but I hope and believe that day 
is far distant. As long as he lives, I shall never ask him 
for anything on your account — he knows your require- 
ments better than I do. You have deceived me, but not 
him.” 

“ Deceived !” she repeated angrily ; but a glance at her 
son’s face told her that a show of indignant feeling 
would be thrown away. “ Has the old man been blab- 
bing,” she asked insolently, “of the innocent shifts to 
which my poverty and your necessities drove me? I 
consider that the little help he gave me was my due, or 
rather a very meagre portion of my due ; and you are 
very much mistaken if you think I am going to cry 
feccavi because you choose to look upon me as a sinner ! 
After all, it is a world of pities that you should not go 
into orders — you would have played the part to admira- 
tion !” 

“ Then you will not be displeased to hear that such is 
still my intention, and that I am on my way to St. Sul- 
pice at this moment, with Sir Giles’s consent.” 

But in fact such an event would have been the destruc- 
tion of all her plans and hopes. Her ultimate intention 
was to remove her residence to London (probably to Sir 
Giles Methuen’s long-disused house in South Audley 
Street, and to establish a lien on his property commen- 
surate with her position as mother of the heir. But this 
could scarcely be carried out if her son became a priest. 

An angry spot burned on her cheeks, and the light of 
her eyes gathered and kindled. She looked at Philip 
with an expression in which rage and contempt were 
equally mixed. 

“ You are a fool,” she exclaimed, “ as you always were, 
and as your father was before you ! But you make a 
mistake if you think I shall suffer myself to be made the 
sacrifice of your folly. There are ways and means that 
your simplicity doesn’t suspect, to bar your way to the 
priesthood. I will see Monseigneur myself ; I have met 
him more than once in society, and I know he is a man 
4 


46 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


of the world, and will hear reason. I will make a per- 
sonal appeal to Sir Giles. You shall not throw away 
your chances !” 

Here her voice shook a little and tears of mortification 
softened her eyes. The thought had occurred to her 
that she might be going too far. If her son were to be 
in the future the fountainhead of pecuniary supplies, it 
was impolitic to alienate his good-will ; and there was a 
hardness of manner in his bearing toward her which 
was quite new and decidedly disagreeable. She liked 
her own way and was prepared to get it, regardless of 
what she trampled down or stood upon in the process ; 
but it was disagreeable to her to be on bad terms with 
those allied to her. Therefore she added, in a more 
conciliatory tone : 

‘‘ You must see that you are doing me a grievous 
wrong !” 

“ The fact of my becoming a priest,” he answered, 
“ will not invalidate my inheritance ; and if I live to suc- 
ceed, I will make you whatever allowance the family 
solicitors think right. I am come to-day to discuss a 
painful subject. From a very early age you made me 
acquainted with the terms of my father’s will, and led 
me to believe that you had always carried them out at 
considerable sacrifice to yourself. I know now that such 
has not been the case. Let that pass — a son cannot ac- 
cuse a mother ; but for the future I claim what belongs 
to me, and I have arranged that my share shall be paid 
to my credit into the bank.” 

Mrs. Methuen’s face grew almost livid as she listened 
to him. A feeling of active hate sprang up in her heart 
as the quiet, deliberate tones fell upon her ears ; and she 
glanced at the beautiful face, cold and resolute as if it 
had been cut out of stone. Then, taking refuge in the 
last resource to which a woman turns when she finds 
herself detected and without excuse : 

“ You insult me !” she said, with a sob. Whatever I 
have done has been done with Sir Giles Methuen’s ap- 
proval. As the head of the family, he volunteered to 
help me in the way you resent, and sanctioned my tak- 
ing the benefit of his help. It has always been under- 
stood between us that as long as I lived I should con- 
tinue to receive the full amount left by your father for 
you and me. At the best it is beggary. Your taking 
the step you threaten is nothing but a vindictive wish 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


47 


to punish me for the restraints and grievances of your 
childhood. I could wish now they had been greater!” 

It was certainly to the credit of Philip's self-command 
that he checked the retort which rose to his lips, but he 
had schooled himself against any expression of personal 
feeling. He was, however, equally determined on car- 
rying his point. 

“ Even my uncle,” he answered, “ has no power to alter 
the provisions of my father’s will; and the trustees un- 
der it, who are, as you know, the solicitors for the Meth- 
uen estates, have already written to me on the subject 
and asked for instructions as to the future. I have 
already answered their letter. When I received it I had 
no idea of your feeling in the matter, or that you would 
be a loser by my taking my own. I imagined that sum 
had been spent by you upon my education from a 
child.” 

“ And that I had subsisted all these years on a 
year?” she asked with a sneer. ” But if you do this thing 
you shall never see my face again !” 

He turned a little pale. “ Do not say that. I am con- 
strained to do as I say, because it is the only way in 
which I can carry out an engagement I have made. It 
is scarcely necessary to tell you that I would not do it 
for my own personal benefit.” 

“ I am to understand, then, that you rob your mother 
with a view to enriching some beggar, or making spirit- 
ual capital out of it in some besotted form of almsgiv- 
ing?” 

‘‘ I have no explanation to give,” was his answer. “ I 
am of age, and the money is at my own disposal. One 
thing I can promise — in no future strait or exigence will 
I ever ask you for help.” 

“ You would certainly ask in vain,” she said, with a 
little laugh. But she felt daunted by the severity of his 
self-control, and, to hide her discomfiture, added quickly : 
“ All this time you tell me nothing. I insist upon know- 
ing how things stand between you and Sir Giles. Is it 
your obstinacy about the priesthood which has led to his 
washing his hands of you?” 

Philip gave her a succinct account of his reception by 
his uncle and the few circumstances of his visit, and 
also of the permission he had obtained from him to refer 
the final decision to the Archbishop of Paris, Monseign- 
eur d’Enghien. 

4 


48 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH, 


A peculiar expression crossed his mother’s face as she 
listened. 

“ I think I begin to understand,” she said, “ and am a 
trifle relieved. Sir Giles and the Archbishop are old 
friends, I know. I was afraid yon had broken with yonr 
nncle. Under any circumstances, he is pretty certain to 
make yon a handsome allowance — and yet you extort 
yonr pound of flesh !” 

“ If he should, I am prepared to give you back as much 
as I claim, or even more, if circumstances justify it. In 
that case you will forgive me, mother?” 

“ Does it matter?” she asked. “ I have never been a 
fond mother, I own, and it is the glory of saints and 
priests to hold natural ties cheap. That is why I am 
almost inclined to allow that you have a vocation. No, 
Philip,” answering the expression of his grave, wistful 
gaze, “ my maternal susceptibilities will never answer to 
your demands. Still. I am not unwilling to order your 
room to be got ready.” 

“ It will not be necessary; I leave Florence this even- 
ing. To-morrow night I sleep once more under the roof 
of St. Sulpice.” 

He got up to take leave. 

You cannot help me in regard to Anna Trevelyan?” 

“ Not in the least! Put a label round her neck, if a 
girl of her age can’t find her way alone, and don’t bring 
ridicule and trouble on your head by mixing yourself up 
in other people’s affairs. Words fail to express my con- 
tempt for the Quixotes of society ! Let the aunt you 
mentioned fetch her or send for her. She is a disagree- 
able, ill-bred little monkey. Her father was once mis- 
taken enough to bring her here.” 

“ True ; that was a mistake” he said, with a smile. 

There was nothing more to say, and yet he lingered. 

His heart was full in view of the near crisis of his life, 
and he could not resist the instinctive desire to try and 
win some touch of sympathy from his mother — because 
she was his mother — and no failure of hers could break 
that inexpressible tie. 

“I must go,” he repeated, “and it is uncertain when 
we shall meet again. Mother, wish me success 1” 

“ With all my heart,” she answered, “ but not after your 
reading of the word. We shall meet again sooner than 
you expect.” 


TH^: STORY OF PHILIP METHUEJSn 


49 


CHAPTER VIL 

** When I look back upon my former race, 

Seasons I see at which the Inward Ray 
More brightly burned or guided some new way; 

Truth in its wealthier scene and nobler space 
Given for my eye to range, and feet to trace; 

And next I mark, ’twas trial did convey. 

Or grief, or pain, or strange eventful day. 

To my tormented soul such larger grace.’* 

— J. H. Newman. 

It would be difficult and perhaps incongruous to de- 
scribe the feelings with which Philip Methuen found 
himself once more within the walls of St. Sulpice. 

In these days, when faith in God has become a conde- 
scension, and the desire to save the souls of men a proof 
of deficient culture or narrow brain, the implicit belief 
and ardent devotion with which he took his part in the 
high religious festival which fell on the day following 
his arrival would excite rather ridicule than sympathy. 

During the years in which he had been a pupil in the 
seminary the supreme government lay in the hands of 
one who regarded the character of its founder with pro- 
found veneration, and went nearer to restore the old 
order and infuse the same spirit of consecration to the 
religious life than had been done for generations past. 

The Abbe de Seve held the belief that to know God 
experimentally, and then to live for no other object but 
to bring God and man together in living communion, 
was the highest condition of being that could be reached. 
He said to his pupils that this was the priestly function,, 
and that to be worthy of it no discipline was too severe ; 
that it demanded a faculty of self-sacrifice practically 
without limit, and that therefore every form of selfish- 
ness and love of pleasure or ease were mortal enemies 
to be overcome at all costs. The Church in her tender 
wisdom stooped to indicate the ways and means best cal- 
culated to develop the growth of the spiritual life in the 
stubborn and sterile hearts of her sons. 

To fast and pray, until nature faints under demands 
too heavy for the body to sustain — to forego the so- 
called innocent enjoyments of youth in order to serve in 
loathsome hospitals, or fulfil some prescribed function 
from which natural pride and fastidiousness recoil — to 


50 ‘ THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


refrain from what is desired and accept the unacceptable 
— were the appointed training for this warfare, and even 
then the victory was uncertain. 

Such teaching is repudiated by the spirit of this age ; 
but may not one be allowed to ask whether Reason her- 
self can deny that it is right, and wise also, to sacrifice 
a lower for a higher good, and that the faculty of post- 
poning the present pleasure to the future gain is al- 
lowed, even by advanced philosophers, to be one of the 
prerogatives of humanity? 

Granting that a man believe in God, as God was in- 
terpreted by Christ, and accept the obligations of his 
service and the incentive of his supreme example, ex- 
travagances and fanaticisms so called fall into place. 

In all human relations the highest test of devotion is 
held to be the sacrifice of personal interest and personal 
pleasure, and it follows logically that the devout Catho- 
lic should esteem the endurance of pain, shame, or con- 
tradiction, as proofs of his reasonable service. 

No prize worth the gaining has ever been won by lan- 
guid hearts or hands; and if likeness to God is only 
to be attained by the denial of those tendencies which 
hamper and slacken our progress, nothing remains but 
to follow the metaphorical injunction, and cut off the 
right hand or pluck out the right eye, at any cost to our 
lower nature. 

At least such was the view of life and duty which 
37-oung Methuen had accepted, and which rendered him 
indifferent to the worldly advantages offered him, and 
eager to follow the vocation not only of priest but of 
missionary. 

On the second day of his return, which was that fixed 
for the momentous interview with the Archbishop, he 
had risen before daybreak and gone into the chapel for 
purposes of private devotion. As he entered he was 
surprised and a little confounded to see the Abbe de 
Seve prostrate before one of the side altars. As Philip 
hesitated a moment whether to advance or retire, he 
rose and came toward him. 

“We are urged by the same necessity,” he said, with 
a grave smile, laying his hand on the head of the young 
man, who had knelt to receive the formal benediction. 
“ My prayers have been for you, my son.” 

“ That I may be faithful to the calling on which my 
heart is set?” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


51 


The Abbe looked at his kindling eyes, and his brows 
contracted a little. 

“ It is not for the disciple to choose the work his Mas- 
ter would have him to do,” he answered, a little coldly. 

“ Do I presume to choose?” said Philip, humbly. “ I 
think no task can be set me that I should not be willing 
to perform — as best I can.” 

“ That remains to be proved. Perhaps the hardest 
task of all is to be passed over without work set or duty 
prescribed — that of being denied the indulgence of your 
own will, when you believe that will to be in conformity 
with the divine will. Go to your prayers, my son, but 
do not presume to indicate to the Supreme Wisdom the 
channels in which his grace shall flow.” 

Philip had become very pale, but he attempted neither 
question nor reply. His submissive respect broke dovm 
the Abbe’s intended reserve. 

“ I stand condemned in my own eyes,” he said, with a 
smile of great sweetness. Of the family under this 
roof, Philip Methuen, you have been to me the Joseph; 
and where the sin of inordinate regard exists, the Diyine 
Wisdom is apt to remove the stumbling-block out of 
one’s path. It is for my chastisement, doubtless, that 
my son is to be sold into Egypt.” 

“ Is it to be so? Accept my grateful thanks for giving 
me warning, and for all the goodness of which I am un- 
worthy.” 

He spoke in a low tone and with no outward signs of 
agitation, but they were practised eyes which watched 
him. What could the Abbe say to heal this wounded 
spirit? 

“ As long as we both live I am your father and this is 
your home. I believe the work you may be called to do 
in the world outside may exceed in hardship and diffi- 
culty anything that would have fallen to your lot as 
priest or missionary even. I know your present repug- 
nance to it, and the heroic youthful dreams which are 
to be disappointed. I know it, Philip. The probe is 
never applied except where the flesh is sensitive, and 
there is no harder word in Holy Scripture than this, ‘ To 
obey is better than sacrifice. ’ ” 

A few hours later Philip was informed that, instead of 
coming to St. Sulpice to confer with the neophyte, the 
Archbishop desired him to wait upon him at his own 
residence ; and there, in an informal way, he told the 


52 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


young man that, after careful consideration of the mat- 
ter, he had reached the conclusion that his sphere of 
duty lay outside the Church. He pointed out in impres- 
sive phrases how, in these faithless and degenerate days, 
more might be done, even for the best interests of relig- 
ion, b}’’ those who had the courage to live the divine life 
in the thick of an indifferent and scoffing world, than in 
the close ranks of the clerical army. 

He also reminded Philip of the claims his uncle had 
upon his duty and of the social obligations which lay 
upon him, and which were recognized by the Church 
herself, to perpetuate a family which maintained the 
true faith in the midst of an inimical nation. 

“ Not,'’ he added, dropping the tone of the ecclesiastic 
for the man of the world, “ that it is necessary to make 
a religious duty of a foregone conclusion. Love is as 
much a law of nature as is growth, and, without flattery, 
3"ou are entitled to expect the best that it can give. Tell 
my good friend. Sir Giles Methuen, that I shall hold my- 
self at his disposal at any time to pronounce the nuptial 
benediction.” 

And so the matter terminated. 

On his return to St. Sulpice, a letter was handed to 
Philip from his uncle, to the effect that he was to re- 
main in Paris, at the seminary if he preferred, until Sir 
Giles joined him, as he proposed to give himself a holi- 
day. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ After April, when May follows 
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dew-drops— at the bent spray's edge — 

That’s the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture.” 

— R. Browning. 

The village of Skeffington, situated in one of the most 
charming and fertile of English valleys, and surrounded 
by some of the loveliest scenery in Dorset, was in itself 
unsightly and unpicturesque. It stretched its devious 
way five miles in extent, and, according to its propor- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 53 

tions, included as much poverty and vice as could be 
found in the slums of any great city. 

The present-day philanthropists might have culled 
from its swarming hovels examples of shameless degra- 
dation that would at least have equalled in realistic 
offensiveness anything that the capital could have sup- 
plied ; and indeed Mr. Sylvestre had been known to say 
that his experiences as a London curate had been out- 
done by Skeffington immorality. There was indeed a 
certain sluggish bovine element about it which distin- 
guished it from the more aggressive forms which vice 
assumes in crowded centres, but perhaps this made it 
rather less than more amenable to reformation; and 
there was also the redeeming physical fact that pure air 
and fresh water circulated round the miserable, dilapi- 
dated cottages, which disgraced landlord and tenant 
alike. 

Board schools (whatever their advantages) had not yet 
reached Skeffington — not because it was so well served 
otherwise in this department, but that the inhabitants, 
headed by their vicar, strenuously resisted the innova- 
tion, and had succeeded, by statistics framed with a cer- 
tain robust imaginativeness concerning the existing 
means of education, in conveying the belief that it was. 

Mr. Sylvestre, to whom a quiet life was the supreme 
end of existence, naturally found it a matter of impor- 
tance to be on good terms with the wealthy farmers of 
the district, and this could certainly not be the case if 
he had fulfilled his duty in forcing to school the little 
shock-headed lads who guided the plough in the heavy 
furrows, trudged alongside the ponderous wagons under 
the eye and whip of thein carter-fathers, or scared the 
clamorous rooks from the seed-fields in the piercing cold 
of the early spring mornings. And still greater would 
have been the opposition of the parents themselves — the 
terrors of Schedule B were as yet undreamt of in this 
Arcadia. 

Mr. Sylvestre 's predecessor had been a very old man, 
who had held the living for close upon fifty years, 
during the chief part of which he had been the best 
fox-hunting parson in a county distinguished for such 
professional hybrids, and had only reluctantly relin- 
quished the saddle when his power to keep his seat failed 
him. His clerical functions had been restricted to 
morning service on Sundays, when he always preached 


54 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


an excellent sermon, selected from some classic theolo- 
gian on his book-shelves, and read prayers again in the 
afternoon. He visited the schools once a week, when 
he invariably commended the diligence of the master, 
patted the heads of the elder scholars, and presented 
sugar-plums to the infants. He had a fine person and 
genial manners, and was by no means unacceptable to 
parishioners and neighbors. He kept a curate, not of 
the advanced type, as may be concluded, but a worthy 
dull man, who married, buried, and baptized for him, 
went occasionally to take the sacrament to some dying 
bed when sent for, and catechized the children in the 
schools. 

No finer field for missionary enterprise could have 
been found than the village of Skeffington, if the right 
man had been chosen for the work; but the Rev. Her- 
bert Sylvestre was singularly destitute of the spirit of a 
reformer. Some improvements were inevitably intro- 
duced: the pretty old-fashioned Norman church, which 
had been rigorously closed from Sunday to Sunday, was 
now thoroughly cleaned and furbished; the neglected 
churchyard levelled, mown, and planted. The school- 
master was dismissed, and one a little more in harmony 
with modern requirements engaged and carefully over- 
looked. The new vicar thought education his strong 
point. Sunday-schools were established and pretty well 
served by the ladies of the village, who found such work 
an element of interest, with the zest of competition, in 
their sluggish lives, and also a means of entree to the 
vicarage. 

Social life could scarcely have been on a lower plane 
than at Skeffington. The wealthy farmers of the neigh- 
borhood exchanged civilities — that is, their womankind 
visited each other, to play tennis and partake of high 
tea. Dinners were an unknown ceremonial: the men 
chiefly entertained each other at the two rival hotels at 
Crawford and Trichester, where the bi-weekly market- 
feasts were spread. 

There was a little nest of rather superior houses gath- 
ered round the vicarage, which were occupied by a mixed 
and rather anomalous class. One was the hereditary 
property of a single lady, in advanced but vigorous mid- 
dle life, and who served under Mr. Sylvestre as honorary 
curate, and helped his wife in the management of the 
new coal and clothing clubs she had established ; another 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


55 


had been bought by a retired draper from the county 
town, whose family consisted of himself and his hand- 
some, dashing daughter; and the most charming cottage 
of all was rented by a young man and his wife, of the 
name, of Mitchell, of apparent education and good man- 
ners, but whose antecedents were a little difficult to trace. 
He declared that he had been induced to take possession 
of the “ delightful shanty” because of the facilities afford- 
ed by its numerous outhouses and sheds for the rearing of 
prize poultry, which was Mr. Mitchell’s hobby, or rather 
one of them, as he was equally devoted to the rearing of 
wire-haired fox-terriers, and made of both an exceed- 
ingly remunerative pursuit. 

There was an uncomfortable want of assimilation be- 
tween these families and the neighboring farmers, as 
also between both classes and the vicarage — Mrs. Syl- 
vestre being accustomed to draw a hard-and-fast line be- 
tween herself and her inferiors. 

Within the five miles area there were only two gentle- 
men’s houses — that of Methuen Place, which we know, 
and which was almost out of account as a factor in the 
social result, owing to the religious faith of its owners 
— a faith held with almost passionate tenacity through- 
out the long period of political disability and oppression. 
It probably arose from this sense of isolation that so 
many of the men of the family had been students and 
scholars, living much abroad and contracting many for- 
eign ties of regard. 

Sir Giles Methuen himself in his younger days had 
spent a great part of his time in Paris, where he 
had made, among others, the ecclesiastical friendship 
which had stood him in such good stead at the present 
crisis. The death of his young wife in childbirth, fail- 
ing health, and the ever-augmenting disappointment in 
his son, had aged him prematurely and sapped his zest 
for life. Now he promised himself to live again in his 
nephew. 

The other house was of greater distinction, and be- 
longed to the Sir Walter Earle of whom we have already 
spoken. But Earlescourt was situated more than five 
miles from Skeffington, and, with the exception of Meth- 
uen Place, the inhabitants were held to be on a different 
social plane, precluding intimacy with a family which 
took foremost rank as one of the oldest and richest ba- 
ronetcies of the kingdom. The only exception was ow- 


56 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


ing to the allowed eccentricity of the eldest boy, Adrian, 
wno sometimes paid visits to the vicarage in favor of lit- 
tle Dorothy Sylvestre, with whom he had made a chance 
acquaintanceship during a picnic held in his father’s 
woods, and had conceived so strong a liking for the child 
as to give proof of it by taking her occasional piesents 
of books, or toys, or fruit. It was on one of these occa- 
sions that he had come into contact with Philip Methuen. 

Such was the general position of affairs on the day 
when Anna Trevelyan was to make her first acquaint- 
ance with English rural life. Philip Methuen had suc- 
ceeded with some difficulty in finding an escort for her, 
and had written to Mrs. Sylvestre requesting that, on 
the date named, she would be good enough to send a 
suitable person to meet her niece at the Charing Cross 
Hotel, and convey her to Skeffington Vicarage. 

Mrs. Sylvestre resented this arrangement as a very un- 
necessary expense, and an act of impertinent dictation 
on his part ; but as she had received by the same post 
her first half-yearly payment, she thought it better to 
comply. It was a singular fact that, whenever the ques- 
tion of absence from home arose between the vicar and 
his wife, it was always decided that he could be much 
better spared than she. And perhaps it was as well, as 
far as Anna’s comfort went, that it was her uncle rather 
than her aunt who fetched her home. 

But the hour and minute did arrive when she stood in 
Mrs. Sylvestre ’s presence, in the colorless room which 
had witnessed the interview which decided her fate, and 
was confronted by the cold gaze of the kinswoman who 
hated her for her father’s sake before the feeling of per- 
sonal antagonism was aroused by the first sight of herself. 

“ Come here and speak to me, Anna, and I will intro- 
duce you to your cousins.” The voice was cold and un- 
sympathetic. Anna was weary, excited, and confused by 
the unfamiliar aspect of everything around her. The 
three little girls stood together in a shy group without 
speaking, but gazing at her intently. 

She was dressed in a straight black frock, which added 
to her height and her pallor ; and from under her wide- 
brimmed straw hat masses of somewhat dishevelled 
chestnut hair fell below her waist ; the fine dark eyes 
looked out before her with an expression at once proud 
and forlorn. It was all she could do to keep the tears out 
of them, and her mouth firm and set. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


57 


“The child is tired, my dear,” interposed the vicar; 
“ let Dolly take her upstairs, and give us some tea as 
soon as possible. We are here sooner than you ex- 
pected.” 

Mrs. Sylvestre’s only reply was to repeat her com- 
mand: “ Come here, Anna, I want to speak to you.” 

Anna moved slowly toward her. Her gait had an 
ease and dignity which came perhaps from the free life 
she had led, united to an admirable physical develop- 
ment — perhaps from the unconscious influence of the 
great works of art amid which she had grown up from 
infancy. Not a point was lost on the woman who 
watched her. 

“Will you kiss me?” she asked, when the girl had 
come close up to her, but making no advance on her own 
part, and with an expression in the prominent blue eyes 
which might have choked the readiest springs of feeling. 

Anna’s springs of feeling were not ready. There was 
a lump in her throat which warned her not to trust her 
voice to speech. 

Her aunt stooped toward her and pressed a light kiss 
upon her forehead ; then, as if to compensate herself for 
this sacrifice to duty, she said, as she touched the rich 
masses of her magnificent hair : 

“ This will never do, Anna! We must get rid of this 
encumbrance at the first opportunity ; no wonder your 
head aches and you look so pale.” 

Anna started, and instinctively grasped as much of 
her floating chevelure as her slim fingers could hold. 

“ Cut off my hair, do you mean !” 

There was an accent in her voice that quickened the 
pulses of Mrs. Sylvestre’s heart; it meant defiance and 
conflict. 

“ Cut it shorter,” she replied, quietly. “ Look at your 
cousins — their hair is pretty and neat, as well as fashion- 
able ; yours would want a lady’s-maid to keep it in order, 
which, it is quite obvious, you have never had, nor am 
I able to give you. But we will talk of this another time. 
Dorothy, take' your cousin upstairs.” 

Dorothy came timidly forward, and held out a child- 
ish, dimpled hand, with a shy smile ; but Anna made no 
response. 

“ Follow Dorothy upstairs, Anna,” said Mrs. Sylvestre, 
sharply, “ and make haste down again. Tea will be 
ready directly.” 


58 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


Anna obeyed with evident reluctance. 

The bedroom into which her cousin took her was a 
bare, meagre chamber, with two narrow white beds in it, 
scrupulously neat and spotless, and just as many toilet 
accessories as necessity required. But the floor was 
covered with fresh India matting. There was a large cur- 
tainless window, but it presented the charm of a deep 
window-seat, and commanded a flne view of the valley 
and distant hills. 

Anna looked about her, crossed the floor, and sitting 
down in the window, pulled off her hat and gloves, and 
then, with an odd sort of deliberation, bowed her face 
upon her hands and sobbed aloud. Dorothy was greatly 
distressed. She had been early taught that it was dis- 
graceful to cry, and she was very much afraid of the 
stranger. She crept up to Anna’s side, and laid a timid 
hand on her arm to attract her notice. 

“Don’t cry, please,” she urged; “your eyes will be 
red, and mamma will be vexed. I wish we were not all 
strange to you, Anna ; but you will soon get used to us, 
and we do have nice times in the garden when lessons 
are done. Look down at the lilacs and laburnum trees. 
Adrian Earle said you would perhaps never have seen 
any.” 

Dorothy’s voice was like the cooing of a wood-pigeon. 
Anna lifted up her tear-stained face, and looked instinc- 
tively in the direction indicated. 

The delicate perfume of the flowering shrubs scented 
the evening air, and the golden laburnum chains fasci- 
nated her eyes. Then a blackbird suddenly broke the 
sylvan stillness with the clear melody of his delightful 
whistle, and a thrush stirred in a thick blossoming thorn- 
tree, and responded or outvied him with his flner notes. 
Lewesden and Pilsdon stood out in the blue distance, 
well defined against the gorgeous sunset sky, and the 
whole wealth of the typical English landscape lay be- 
tween them and the vicarage garden. 

Dorothy, whom sympathy rendered acute, pressed 
affectionately against her cousin’s side. 

“ It is very pretty, isn’t it?” she said, “ though it is not 
like Florence.” 

Anna’s breast heaved. She turned away from the 
window and shut her eyes to hide the burning tears 
which the movement only caused to flow over her cheeks. 
With her hands clasped together tightly in her lap, and 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH. 


59 


her graceful head bowed with the weight of her ardent 
anguish, she looked like some youthful saint anticipat- 
ing her martyrdom. 

There was a knock at the door, and the governess an- 
nounced that tea was ready. 

“ I will not come down,” said Anna; “ send me some- 
thing to eat up here.” 

“ Eat in your bedroom !” said Dorothy, surprised ; “ we 
are never allowed to do that.” 

“ Then I will do without eating. I will not go down- 
stairs — I like this place best.” 

But when Mrs. Sylvestre heard Dorothy’s report, she 
rose fom behind her tea-urn, in spite of a smothered pro- 
test from her husband, and going into Anna’s room, 
took the girl by the hand in her cool, strong grasp, and 
constrained her to rise from her seat. 

“ Tea is ready,” she said, “ and you need refreshment. 
Come with me, Anna. No one stays away from meals 
unless they are ill.” 

Anna yielded, and her aunt felt somewhat mollified 
toward her, as having herself scored the first victory. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ I think we are too ready with complaint 
In this fair world of God’s.” 

— E. B. Browning. 

The next few weeks passed with less friction th<in 
might have been expected. The novelty of her sur- 
roundings could not but occupy Anna’s mind to a degree 
which prevented perpetual brooding over her dead father 
and lost freedom. Then she was kept hard at her les- 
sons. The young governess, who had now lived with 
Mrs. Sylvestre more than two years, was a zealous and 
conscientious girl, who had well profited by the ad- 
vanced instruction she had received, and on whom the 
intelligence and progress of her little pupils reflected in- 
finite credit. 

Anna was not long in perceiving that her own igno- 
rance simply astounded her cousins. What did it mat- 
ter that she spoke Italian with greater fluency than her 
native language, and could repeat whole pages of the 


6o 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ Divina Commedia" by heart, when she could not write 
a decent letter in either tongue? She sketched with 
a power and ease that almost startled her new com- 
panions ; but she had scarcely heard of the multiplica- 
tion table, and her spelling was guided by the purest 
phonetic instincts. Of music she knew absolutely noth- 
ing, while able to reproduce by ear any melody she 
heard once played, and to sing with a voice as pure and 
true as the birds of the air. History, except as regarded 
Romanist and Florentine legends, was a fountain whose 
seal had never been broken — she was absolutely igno- 
rant of her own ignorance. Of the whole circle of 
human knowledge and possible attainment, she had 
scarcely touched a single point. 

All this was pretty much what Mrs. Sylvestre had ex- 
pected, and for which she had prepared Miss Sewell; 
but the latter at least was not prepared for the profound 
indifference, almost contempt, for learning which Anna 
Trevelyan showed. 

The drudgery of arithmetic, the mental discipline 
which grammar exacts — even the details of geographical 
science — were a profound weariness to the girl, who had 
never yet known what it was to do the thing she was not 
inclined to do. 

“ Of what use is it?” she asked. “ I do not care about 
it at all. I know enough to make life pleasant, if 
only ” And then she stopped short. 

“ If only?” repeated Mrs. Sylvestre, with a sneer. It 
was this lady’s habit to be continually in and out of her 
children’s school-room. 

Anna looked up defiantly ; the flush had dried the tears 
from her eyes. 

“ If only I had some one I cared for,” she added, 
boldly. “ None of you seem to mind about that; but I 
think it is the only thing that matters !” 

Dorothy, who was sitting next her, managed to slip 
her little palm into her hand. Anna looked at her with 
a kind of superb tolerance. 

“ You are a dear little thing,” she said; “but I don’t 
mean that sort of feeling. I mean the love one has for 
those older and better than we are, when we know we 
should make them happier by growing better and wiser 
ourselves.” 

“My dear Anna,” said Miss Sewell, smiling, “you 
would make my heart dance with joy if you would only 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 6i 

learn your lessons better ; and, I am sure, your aunt will 
say the same.” 

“No, she will not,” replied Mrs. Sylvestre, dryly. 
“ Anna must do her duty under other incentives. If, for 
instance, she will not take the trouble to master that 
chapter of Collier, which I see still open before her, she 
must spend the evening over it instead of going out for 
a walk with the rest.” 

As she passed out of the room, she stopped beside her 
niece for a moment and lifted the heavy tresses from 
her neck. “ I am still of opinion this hair ought to be 
cut oif,” she remarked; “ you would learn much better 
without it. I shall consult our doctor on the subject.” 

As the door closed upon her, Anna shut the venerable 
volume open before her which she had been making 
some effort to study. 

“ I hate her,” she said, “ and she hates me. I will not 
learn my lesson ! As for my hair — not a finger shall be 
laid upon it !” 

She burst suddenly into passionate crying, as was her 
custom ; but it was neither wounded pride nor alarmed 
vanity which made her weep, but the remembrance of 
the last touch of her father’s hand upon the glories of 
her head, and his tender admiration of them. 

Lessons were, just over, so Miss Sewell hastily dis- 
missed the children to the garden, hoping Anna’s rash 
words had escaped them, and then sat down by the girl. 

“ I do not for a moment suppose that it is a point your 
aunt will carry against your consent, so don’t cry about 
it. What, dear,” remarking the prompt curve of her 
flexible lip, “ am I making sorhe mistake? Then I beg 
your pardon; only you must not say you won’t look at 
that poor book any more — you could master it in half an 

hour if you chose And if you don’t choose, there 

will be no walk for you to-night in Methuen Park. See 
what a sunset we shall have, and the wild strawberries 
are ripe !” 

A rapt look came over Anna’s face which puzzled Miss 
Sewell extremely. She knew very little about Anna’s 
past life, Mrs. Sylvestre not approving of raising the best 
of governesses to the position of confidant. 

“ Dolly told me her mother never let them walk in the 
park, however hard they begged.” 

“ That is when Sir Giles is at home,” said Miss Sewell, 
smiling. “ Mrs. vSylvestre does not like to encroach on 
5 


62 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


other people’s privacy. He has been staying in Paris, 
with his nephew, almost ever since the funeral. They 
are expected home to-morrow.” 

Anna made a movement of eager speech, then closed 
her lips ; and a flush passed over the flne pallor of her 
skin, which seemed like a transfiguration. 

“ I will go,” she said. “ You are right when you say I 
can learn my lesson if I choose.” 

An hour later Miss Sewell and her pupils passed 
through the vicarage gates on their way to Methuen 
Park. It was a two-mile walk, as we know ; but the 
season was at the prime of its summer glories, and the 
children, eager to make up for the long day’s close con- 
finement by free exercise of voice and limb, ran and 
leapt and laughed with perpetual divergences into the 
teeming hedgerows in pursuit of flowers and ferns, 
dropped almost as soon as gathered. All at least except 
Anna, who, having learnt her distasteful task, was now 
walking at Miss Sewell’s side, with pale cheeks and 
gleaming eyes. — signs of some deep inward excitement. 

Just as they had reached the gate which divided the 
park from the public road, a young man stepped forward 
and opened it from the inner side. The children looked 
shyly at him ; Miss Sewell thanked him, with a smile, 
and he, with a careless courteous recognition, singled 
out Dorothy alone for the honor of his greeting. 

“Well met!” he said. “ I was deadly tired of myself 
and my book.” He glanced toward a near tree, where 
an open volume was lying on the grass, and a horse 
quietly grazing with its bridle fastened by a stake to the 
ground. “ I am delighted to meet a friend. May I join 
you. Miss Sewell.^” 

“ If you like to do so ; but the children are going to 
pick strawberries, and Dolly always knows best where 
to find them. I am afraid you won’t care for that.” 

“ I would much rather stay with Mr. Earle, if he will 
let me,” said Dolly, anxiously; but this Miss Sewell 
overruled. She knew the children would be expected 
to produce proofs of their industry, and also that Mrs. 
Sylvestre looked very coolly upon the odd friendship be- 
tween her little daughter and Sir Walter Earle’s heir: 
had he extended it to the family it would have been an- 
other matter. 

“ Run on with the little ones, Dorothy, and come back 
when you have filled your baskets.” And Dorothy, with 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 63 

a wistful look at the young man, who only replied to it 
by a careless smile, was compelled to obey. 

Adrian meanwhile dropped to Miss Sewell’s side, and 
cast a swift, inquiring look toward Anna. He was very 
much struck by the tall, pale, picturesque-looking girl, 
whose air and expression seemed involuntarily to con- 
vey the idea of aloofness and isolation. It was not to 
be supposed that he was in ignorance of the small poli- 
tics of the locality ; and falling back on the gossip which 
had reached him, he came to a right conclusion about 
Anna’s identity. 

“ Will you not introduce me to Mrs. Sylvestre’s niece?” 
he asked. 

His smile was so sweet and manner so soft that Anna, 
abstracted as she was, turned her eyes fully upon him. 

” My name is Anna Trevelyan,” she said, while poor 
Miss Sewell was hesitating to find a way of escape out 
of her difficulty — ” you can tell me yours.” 

This girl, without a penny, spoke and looked like some 
young captive princess. Adrian was still more amused 
and interested. He stooped to pick a particularly fine 
globe of clover which caught his eye in the grass, and 
on recovering the erect position, managed to bring him- 
self to Anna’s side. 

”I am Adrian Earle,” he said; “but you will never 
have heard of me! Indeed, very few people have. I live 
a harmless, quiet life, something like a toad in a hollow 
tree. It is seldom I go so far afield as I have done to- 
day.” Then, glancing at Miss Sewell, he added, “ I felt 
a little surprise at recognizing your party, and thought 
you must all be playing truant. How is it the veto is re- 
moved which makes Methuen Park forbidden ground?” 

“ That is only when Sir Giles is at home. I thought 
you knew our domestic code pretty well by this time, 
Mr. Earle.” 

“ It is precisely because I know it so well ” began 

Adrian, when, to his astonishment, he felt a sudden 
stealthy grip on his arm from Anna’s thin but vigorous 
fingers, and meeting her eyes, read in them a mute, pas- 
sionate entreaty, which arrested the wdrds on his tongue. 

“ Can we see the house yet?” she asked in an eager 
whisper. “ I am so anxious to see the house !” And it 
seemed to him as if she wished to press forward and 
leave Miss Sewell behind. Both curiosity and good feel- 
ing impelled him to humor her ; there was a look of pur- 
5 


64 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


pose in her face which meant more than any childish 
whim. 

They were well within the precincts of the park by 
this time, which showed a prospect the young Florentine 
had never seen before. But Anna had no eyes for the 
wide stretch of vivid elastic turf, or for the gigantic 
boughs and massive shade of the majestic elm-trees, 
which were the pride of the county as well as of the 
family. 

The shimmer and sound of the lovely little stream 
which brawled at their feet, and was diverted into foun- 
tains and fish-pools in the gardens of the house, were 
equally disregarded by her — all her faculties seeming 
to be concentrated on the discovery of the dwelling. 

“We are close upon it,” said Adrian, kindly, “ though 
it lies too low to get a view of it where we stand. A 
few steps higher and you will be able to see it.” 

He offered his hand to help her up the slight ascent, 
for in her eagerness she had stumbled and slipped, and 
in another moment Anna saw the venerable gray-stone 
mansion lying at her feet, its old-fashioned gardens now 
dappled and gay with summer flowers, and the pretty 
Italian fountain, with its gold and silver fish in the cool 
basin below leaping in the sunset light. She stood gaz- 
ing at the charming picture with a breathless interest 
which completely puzzled her companion. 

“ Do you like it so much?” he asked, smiling. “ It is a 
nice place enough in its way, and in better order just now 
than I ever saw it before ; but that must strike you as a 
very small way after your Florentine palaces. Miss Tre- 
velyan.” 

Anna made an impatient movement, as if what he was 
saying was quite beside the point ; and at the same mo- 
ment Miss Sewell was called away by a sudden conten- 
tion which reached her ears from her little pupils in the 
distance. 

Anna drew a breath of relief. “ Oh, how glad I am 
she is gone ! You don’t understand, of course, but I will 
explain. I know they are there — came home yesterday — 
and I was dreadfully afraid Miss Sewell would find it 
out. If she had, she would have turned back and gone 
home again, or at least another way. You very nearly 
spoilt all !” 

“ Very nearly, indeed,” he answered, “ as I had not the 
faintest idea there was anything to spoil ; but ” he 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 65 

hesitated from a feeling of reluctance to question closely 
this pale strange girl, who was giving her confidence to 
a stranger. He contented himself with adding : “ Can 
I help you in any way?” 

“ Show me how to get down to the house,” she an- 
swered. But I see. That narrow road winds down to 
the little bridge and leads into the court-yard. But 
where is the entrance-gate? I see no portico.” 

“ The chief entrance is on the other side — we cannot 
see it where we stand. But may I venture to ask you a 
question?” 

She nodded impatiently, still keeping her strained at- 
tention on the house below. 

“ Are not you Mrs. Sylvestre’s niece and ward? and do 
you not know she would be very much annoyed if you 
were to go inside the walls of Methuen Place? What do 
you want there? I ask you again, can I help you in any 
way?” 

“ What do I want?” she repeated, turning upon him a 
look so wild and forlorn as to be almost startling. ” I 
want Philip Methuen. I want to tell him I cannot live 
with my aunt, and he must take me away. I am more 
miserable than I am able to say — miserable all day, mis- 
erable all the long nights through, when I lie awake 
wishing I were dead. I mean what I say. I wish, I 
wish I were lying in the warm earth, close to my father’s 
side, in dear old Florence ! That ends all — he used to 
say so — but” — with a fierce strangled sob — “ I am alive ! 
and I cannot go on living as I am. Philip will help me.” 

Adrian felt a pang of keenest sympathy. His knowl- 
edge of Mrs. Sylvestre and Anna’s free betrayal of her 
own passionate nature made the situation quite clear to 
him: she must have known Methuen abroad. But he 
could not let this wild, self-willed girl commit an abso- 
lute breach of propriety, and one for which she would 
probably be severely punished. 

” It is very hard,” he said ; ” but you do not quite know 
how stiff and formal our English ways are, and as there 
are no ladies at Methuen Place, it would be thought 
strange for you to call there alone. Besides, I am afraid 
it will only make matters worse between you and your 
aunt if you appeal against her authority to strangers.” 

” Strangers !” repeated Anna, with a smile full of pas- 
sionate meaning. ” I am not afraid of Mrs. Sylvestre, or 
if I were, Philip will take care she does not hurt me. 


66 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Every day I have questioned the servant about his com- 
ing home, and made her promise to tell me the truth. 
Without the hope of seeing him, do you think I would 
have endured my prison life at the vicarage? Now he 
is come and I am safe — Philip !” 

She spoke the name with an accent so tender and ca- 
ressing as to call up a smile to the young man’s lips. 
Was she child or woman? It was difficult to pronounce 
exactly about her age, she looked so different from other 
girls, and — ^how beautiful she was ! 

But all this was for further consideration ; the next 
thing to be done was to summon Miss Sewell and pre- 
vent the impending catastrophe. He looked round to 
see how far off she was, and at the same moment one of 
the long windows of the dining-room of the house was 
throv/n open, and two gentlemen stepped out upon the 
terrace. Quick as thought Anna recognized one of them 
as Philip, and scarcely less swift was her obedience to 
the overmastering impulse which prompted her to rush 
to his side. 

Before Adrian could guess her intention, or prevent it, 
her flying feet had carried her too far for pursuit, if pur- 
suit had been desirable. He watched her with mixed 
amusement and concern. So swift and sure were her 
movements, that the downward path was traversed and 
the rustic bridge crossed almost as fast as his eye could 
follow her. At this point she was close upon the court- 
yard of the house and opposite the principal entrance. 

Anna glanced up at the firmly closed and stately por- 
tal, and then perceived that beyond the paved enclosure 
only a low stone parapet divided the flower-garden, on 
which she had been looking down, from the park boun- 
dary. 

In another moment she had sprung lightly over the 
barrier before the astonished eyes of Sir Giles Methuen, 
had rushed, flushed and panting, to Philip’s side, and, 
perhaps because too breathless for words, had caught his 
hand in both hers and covered it with kisses. 

After the first shock of surprise Sir Giles formed a 
fair guess of the situation, and watched his nephew with 
an intense inward sense of amusement. 

There are perhaps few things which titillate more 
agreeably the cynic’s sense of humor than to see a grave 
man placed in a ridiculous position ; and there was an 
obvious incongruity between the reticence of Philip’s 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


67 


character and demeanor and the unrestrained ardor with 
which this beautiful girl had all but flung herself on his 
breast and was still pouring forth words of rapturous 
greeting in the caressing diminutives of her native Tus- 
can. Indeed, her speech was too rapid and colloquial for 
the old baronet to follow, very much to his disappoint- 
ment; and he was equally baffled by his nephew’s 
prompt and fluent response. 

Philip, catching the mocking expression of his uncle’s 
face, had felt for a moment embarrassed, but it only 
served to increase the air of tender respect with which 
he took Anna’s eager hands in his, and, in response to 
the piteous expectancy of her face, stooped and kissed 
her forehead. Then leading her up to his uncle, he in- 
troduced her to him as Lewis Trevelyan’s daughter, and 
his own little sister by adoption. 

Sir Giles received her with a delightful old-fashioned 
courtesy. He made her sit down and rest in a comfort- 
ably padded old garden seat close to the fountain, and 
sent Philip back into the dining-room for a cushion for 
her feet and a plate of peaches. He encouraged her to 
talk to him freely about the matter of which her heart 
was full ; and though a sense of gentlemanly duty pre- 
vented any expression of his personal antipathy to Mrs. 
Sylvestre, it was evident to Anna that he was greatly in 
sympathy with the spirit which animated her passionate 
complaints. 

On the other hand, Philip, having heard all that the 
girl had to say, and judged it impartially, came to the 
conclusion that there was very insufficient ground for 
suspecting Mrs. Sylvestre of actual injustice or cruelty, 
and did his best to mitigate her sense of injury. He saw 
clearly that, as they were respectively situated, the vic- 
arage at Skefflngton was the best asylum for Anna ; and 
he knew her undisciplined nature well enough to be 
quite sure that even judicious restraint would be resented 
as a wrong. 

He maintained this view with so much firmness that 
Anna’s indignation was soon diverted toward himself, 
and she interrupted her appeals to the more impression- 
able Sir Giles with violent reproaches for his son’s 
cruelty and faithlessness. 

At this point the difficulty of the situation was in- 
creased by a servant announcing a visit from poor Miss 
Sewell, who had seen no other way out of her serious 


68 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


dilemma than braving the lion in his den, and reclaim* 
ing her pupil at the hands of the terrible old baronet 
himself. 

Sir Giles, on receiving her name, rose and went to her 
immediately, and in five minutes’ gracious intercourse 
had wiped off the accumulated aspersions and prejudices 
of years. Her prayer was that Sir Giles would so exer- 
cise his authority as to constrain Anna to return home 
with her at once. The other children she had been 
obliged to leave in the park under Mr. Earle’s kind pro- 
tection. 

“ Gh, no ; ten thousand thanks ! but they must not be 
fetched into the house.” It was very late already, and 
she was frightened at the probable consequences of 
Anna’s behavior. 

That the girl must go back to her aunt’s house that 
night. Sir Giles allowed to be necessary, whatever future 
arrangements might be made; and he conducted Miss 
Sewell into the garden, that she might resume her con- 
trol over her pupil. 

As they approached, they saw that Anna was still sit- 
ting in her chair, weeping bitterly, with her face hidden 
in her hands, and that Philip, who had probably ex- 
hausted both argument and entreaty, was standing at 
some little distance from her in evidently perplexed, if 
not displeased, silence. 

Sir Giles smiled to see how his face brightened at Miss 
Sewell’s approach. “ I think,” he said, introducing her, 
“ I have brought you a friend in need.” 

Philip looked at her for a moment with penetrating 
attention. 

“ Tell me,” he asked, “ the truth about Anna so far as 
you can without being disloyal to Mrs. Sylvestre. In 
one word, is it necessary for her welfare and happiness 
that her friends should take her away?” 

Miss Sewell answered with a courageous frankness 
which astonished herself, but which Philip’s look and 
manner evoked. 

“ Mrs. Sylvestre was cold, even severe, but her niece 
was difficult to control or win ; and, on the other hand, 
the children were affectionate and lovable, her uncle 
very kind to her, and she herself deeply anxious to win 
the girl’s love and confidence. She doubted if Anna 
would be better off elsewhere.” 

Anna had raised her head at Miss Sewell’s approach, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 69 

and had listened to what passed with a scornful and re- 
sentful air. 

“ Thank you, I am quite satisfied,” Philip had an- 
swered ; and then he turned toward Anna, picked up the 
little black silk handkerchief she had thrown off in her 
excitement, which' had been tied round her throat, and 
held out his hand to raise her from her seat. 

“ Come,’ he said gently, but with an unmistakable air 
of authority, “ we must not keep Miss Sewell waiting.” 

Anna rose slowly and looked defiantly into his steady 
eyes. 

“ You send me back to prison and to misery, while 
you yourself have everything that heart can wish ! My 
aunt will punish me as if I were a child when I get back. 
Do you know how she will punish me? She will cut off 
my hair !” 

The inflection of the voice, the gesture with which she 
grasped her heavy tresses, had that touch of exaggera- 
tion which mixes something of the comic with the tragic 
element of a situation, and in so doing aids rather than 
destroys its pathos. 

There was not a gleam of amusement in Philip’s face. 

“At least,” he answered, “I will not send you back 
alone, but go with you ; and we will both see Mrs. Syl- 
vestre, and make her understand that, under any cir- 
cumstances, her displeasure must never take that form. 
I think I shall be able to persuade her that it was the 
most natural thing in the world that you should come 
and see your old friend ; and I will do my best to get 
leave to pay you a visit now and then. I had made up 
my mind to go and see you to-morrow.” 

“ And you will not come now? O Philip, must you 
punish me too?’ 

“ I will come if allowed. The sooner we go and ask 
the better. Are you ready. Miss Sewell?” And then in 
a lower tone to Sir Giles, “ I have taken your permission 
for granted. I could scarcely leave Anna to bear the 
brunt of her aunt’s displeasure alone.” 

“ It seems you are likely to meet Adrian Earle in the 
park, playing nursery-maid to Mrs. Sylvestre’s brood. 
Send him down to me. He is always amusing, and I will 
keep him till you return. It is as well you and he 
should be friends.” 


70 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


CHAPTER X. 


“ The truth is, youth 
I want, who am old and know too much; 

I’d catch youth; lend me sight and* touch! 

Drop heart’s blood when life’s wheels grate dry!” 

— R. Browning. 


When does life redeem its promises? 

Sir Giles Methuen had said to himself over and over 
again that were relief possible from the miserable anxi- 
eties which had racked his peace and made the future 
formidable, he should be restored to health both of body 
and mind. Under his sharp and cynical temper he had 
a warm heart, which had received a good many severe 
shocks in his passage through life, and now in this hal- 
cyon season, so unexpectedly granted, he was quite pre- 
pared to receive his nephew with almost paternal regard. 

It must, however, at the same time be allowed that 
he was not only affectionate but exacting, with a morbid 
tendency to doubt his own capacity for being loved. He 
was fully prepared to adopt Philip as a son, but was the 
young man disposed to look upon him as a father? Was 
there not, under the surface of his considerate kindness 
and obedience, a current of determination and indepen- 
dence which fretted his sense of security? 

To go back a little. When Sir Giles had joined Philip 
in Paris he had been quite prepared to encounter even 
passionate protests and reproaches for the part he had 
played, and was not so much relieved as baffled by his 
nephew’s studious avoidance of all controversy. 

His dutiful attentions to himself, and the apparent ab- 
sence of temper or resentment, did not deceive hi^ acute 
observation, and at last he rushed into the subject. 

They had taken the train to Fontainebleau, and were 
sitting under the shade of some of the prodigious oaks in 
that most picturesque of forests, watching the decline of 
the midsummer sun, when Sir Giles said suddenly ; 

“ Apropos of nothing, Philip, I would much rather you 
made a clean breast of your feeings in regard to our good 
Archbishop’s decision — that is, I shoud like to know ex- 
actly how much you were vexed and disappointed. I re- 
member how sure you felt of the result, and am willing 
to own that you accept your hard fate better than I ex- 
pected.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 71 

“ That is just it. I do accept it, so to my mind there 
is nothing more to be said.” 

He looked straight before him, as if watching the de- 
licious play of light and shade in the sylvan alleys which 
stretched on all sides of them, but resolutely avoiding 
the old man’s wistful gaze. 

“ So I shall never be bothered by complaint or regret 
in the future? or perhaps you are already persuaded 
there is nothing to regret?” 

Philip was silent for several minutes. His gaze was 
still fixed, but it was easy to see the concentration was 
inward rather than outward ; while the deepening curves 
of the subtle but finely moulded lips and of the lines of 
the sharply defined brows testified that apathy at least 
had nothing to do with his composure. 

“ Don’t you remember,” he answered at last, “ how 
freely I expressed myself on this subject when there was 
yet a chance of influencing your mind? My opinions, 
my feelings, if you like, are precisely the same now as 
they were then, but no good can come of talking about 
them. I said I would yield implicit obedience to the de- 
cision reached by Monseigneur d’Enghien, not knowing 
that it was a foregone conclusion. Excuse my saying I 
look upon this as having been a trap set for my inexperi- 
ence, but the unwary must suffer for their unwariness.” 

“ Commend me to a saint for a special gift of provoca- 
tion!” cried Sir Giles, testily. “ You would give me to 
understand that, though you bear no malice, this little 
transaction at starting will be an effectual barrier be- 
tween us ! I was fool enough to think that you and I 
might have stood in some measure in the relation of 
father and son, outside the range of pounds, shillings, 
and acres.” 

“No father shall be able to reckon more surely upon s 
son’s duty.” 

“ Duty? Ay, I might have known all natural spon- 
taneity would be kneaded into that nauseous stuff with 
you ! I decline the tribute of your duty ! Dufy I can 
get by paying for it, and I won’t accept it at your hands. 
I see I have still a crook in my lot, the only difference 
being that the twist is in the reverse direction. Come, 
it is time to be going.” 

He stood up impatiently as he spoke, poking the 
ground viciously with his stick. 

“ It will be quite as well,” he added, bitterly, “that 


72 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


you and I should not live always together. Your con- 
founded coolness aggravates my temper, and I put my- 
self at a disadvantage with a youngster. Am I to under- 
stand that you will take your quiet revenge by throwing 
away the splendid chances I am able to offer you?” 

“ Understand nothing but that your way is mine for 
the future.” 

'‘So far good,” answered Sir Giles, a little mollified; 
“but I may as well warn you. No Methuen for many 
generations past has been a happy or successful man. 
It may be you will spoil your life somehow, like the rest 
of us.” 

“ Very likely. I am not at all sanguine about the fut- 
ure.” 

“ But I am!” responded Sir Giles with illogical asper- 
ity. “ To-morrow night — you have not forgotten, I sup- 
pose? — we are to meet Lord Sainsbury at the embassy, 
and my heart is fixed on his offering you the post of his 
private secretary. If he should, it is understood between 
us that you accept it. It is the finest possible open- 
ing for a political career, which I am bent on your fol- 
lowing. You will not disappoint me, Philip?” 

“ If I do,” was the answer, “ it will be my misfortune, 
not my fault.” 

“ Once more, good. You are prepared to try, and the 
first step is to please the great man. I think he has every 
disposition to be pleased. I need not caution you against 
putting yourself too forward : wait to have your opinions 
elicited, and receive his as if they were final. If you 
are quite of another mind, it is not absolutely necessary 
that you should let the fact appear. Time and society 
will make wonderful changes in your present beliefs.” 

“ But on some very fundamental points I find Lord 
Sainsbury ’s beliefs and mine are identical.” 

“ Eh? You are already acquainted with his opinions?” 

“ I have taken up Hansard the last few mornings and 
have been looking over his speeches. If he should only 
like me half as well as I like him — that is, if his words 
are to be trusted ” 

“ Come, this really looks healthy ! He is a fine fellow, 
though a bit of a bigot ; but you are of the right stuff of 
which disciples are made. You would never take the 
initiative, Philip, but docility is a far more serviceable 
quality. I consider the first step gained already.” 

Sir Giles was radiant, and still more elated when, at the 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 73 

close of the next day’s momentous entertainment, the 
good-natured ambassador made opportunity to tell him 
before he left that Lord Sainsbury was much taken by 
Philip, and that he was sure of the appointment if he 
would make up his mind to accept it. 

“ In short. Sir Giles,” he concluded, “ your nephew 
strikes us both as specially trained to suit Lord Sains- 
bury ’s purpose. He has not only the necessary acquire- 
ments to a degree few young men of his age possess, but 
I can see he has the rare gift of obeying orders. Then, 
again, he has the looks and manners which are indispen- 
sable to a man of Sainsbury ’s fastidiousness. Tell him 
from me his career is already made, only — he must marry 
the right woman !” 

“ It will not be necessary for him to do that just at 
present. He was, as I told you, brought up for the priest- 
hood, and the notion of marriage is disagreeable to him.” 

The ambassador raised his eyebrows a little. 

“ That goes for what it is worth! At all events, don’t 
let him fall in love with the wrong one.” And they 
shook hands and parted. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ How the world is made for each of us ! 

How all we perceive and know in it 
Tends to some moment’s product thus. 

When a soul declares itself— to wit, 

By its fruit, the thing it does !” 

— R. Browning. 

Sir Giles began to take heart of grace again. The 
nephew, whom he had feared might be recalcitrant, was 
amenable enough so far as outward submission went. 
He had consented to forego what he considered his vo- 
cation, and to adopt a profession for which he had pro- 
fessed a positive repugnance. Let sleeping dogs lie! 
Was it of any great account if, at the bottom of his heart, 
lay the same inclinations and aversions still? 

They came home to Methuen Place under the arrange- 
ment that Philip was to consider himself his own master 
until Parliament met again in the spring, the present 
session having nearly run its course. Lord Sainsbury; 
who knew all the family circumstances, had been reluc- 


74 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


tant to deprive the old man at once of his nephew’s so- 
ciety, and had also suggested that the interval might be 
well spent by him in the study of English politics and 
constitutional history — subjects which had been unde- 
niably neglected in the young man’s education. 

Philip Methuen, to whom stringent mental occupation 
was a necessity as well as a duty, followed this advice 
so sedulously that Sir Giles began to look about for sal- 
utary diversions for him. 

There were Adrian Earle and the Earlescourt circle at 
command, but the young man himself was so uncertain 
and crotchety that he placed very little reliance on this 
resource, and was agreeably disappointed when he found 
that he and his equally difficult nephew seemed to get 
on very well together. Sir Giles would have said there 
was scarcely a sympathy in common between the learned 
young recluse of Issy and St. Sulpice and the indolent 
eccentric Englishman who had just finished his terms at 
Brazenose, where, to the vexation of friends who knew 
his powers, he had barely secured his degree, refusing 
to attempt to win the honors which were certainly within 
his easy reach. 

Their friendship, however, prospered so far that 
Adrian was constantly at Methuen Place ; and on the re- 
turn of Sir Walter Earle from town with other members 
of his family, Philip accepted a fortnight’s invitation to 
Earlescourt, Sir Giles consenting to break his habits of 
seclusion and join the part}^ for the last two days of his 
visit. 

“By that time,” he said to his nephew, “you and 
Honor Aylmer will probably be sworn friends. She is 
a fine girl, and every one likes her; moreover, you will 
see her to advantage as mistress of the house — poor Miss 
Earle being kept in town through the illness of some 
very dear relative. Of course you know that Miss Ayl- 
mer is an heiress in her own right, with lacs of rupees 
for hfer portion — her father having been the governor of 
some obscure but prolific Indian province. Also you 
know she is engaged to marry Adrian Earle as soon as 
she is of age. Of course he has talked to you about her?” 

“ He has told me about as much as you have just now 
said.” 

“ There is another member of the family who will not 
probably make friends with you so easily — he is a mis- 
erable creature ! I often pity Sir Walter Earle. It is a 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


75 


terrible trial to be the father of deformity, be it physical 
or moral.” 

” And what of the miserable creature’s own share of 
the trial Is not that sharper still?” 

‘‘I never took kindly to idiots or cripples,” returned 
Sir Giles, sharply, ” and when they are spiteful and ill- 
conditioned, I consider myself excused from pitying 
them even.” 

Philip Methuen’s acquaintance with the member of 
Sir Walter Earle’s family thus characterized by his 
uncle took place sooner than he expected. 

On the day of his arrival, Sir Walter and Honor Ayl- 
mer were not at home to receive him, for no particular 
hour had been fixed, and the servant who admitted him, 
laboring under some mistake, said that Mr. Earle was in 
his brother’s room, and had desired that if Mr. Methuen 
came he should be asked to join them there. 

Having taken him to the door of the apartment, the 
man knocked and retired; and Philip, in answer to a 
shrill “ Come in !” opened it and entered. It was a chilly 
day in early August, but the temperature of the room 
was that of a hot-house, and lying on a pile of cushions, 
in the full focus of the blazing hearth, with his head re- 
ceiving the direct rays of the fire, lay the blighted cadet 
of the house, the deformed cripple, Oliver Earle. The 
deformity was not apparent as he lay with a covering 
over his limbs ; but the sharp features and eager, wistful 
expression of the boy, who was seventeen but looked 
younger, told the unmistakable tale of lifelong and un- 
accepted suffering. His position was such that he faced 
the door, and, on seeing a stranger enter, he uttered a 
sudden cry like a hurt animal, and drew the silken cov- 
erlet up to his eyes. 

“Go away!” he almost shrieked. “You have made 
some mistake. Go away this moment ! How dare you 
stare at me?” 

His eyes blazed as he spoke : one might have thought 
he was some couchant creature about to spring on the 
intruder. 

Philip closed the door softly behind him, and ad- 
vanced a little farther into the room. 

“ It is true,” he said, “ I have made a mistake. I ex- 
pected to find Adrian Earle here, but I believe you are 
his brother. If so, why don’t you give me the welcome 
I have missed from him?” 


76 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


He looked down at him quietly, without curiosity and 
without pity, and his voice had an inflection which could 
scarcely fail to touch the sensitive ear and heart. 

“ Let me stay,” he added; “ every one else is out, and 
I am quite a stranger.” 

Oliver remained silent, looking hard at him, then said 
moodily, “ Stay if you like,” and turned, though the effort 
was painful, on his other side, so as to have his back to 
the new-comer. 

Philip surveyed the room. “You are lodged like a 
prince,” he said. “ Have I your leave to examine the 
things lying about?” There was an inarticulate sound 
for answer. 

It was a large apartment, with a bay-window so deep 
and wide that the recess formed a little chamber of it- 
self, and the broad seat below, from which a delightful 
view of the pleasure-grounds could be gained, was 
stuffed and padded so as to form a luxurious couch. All 
the other couches and seats which stood about the room 
seemed each to have been made with some special adap- 
tation to an invalid’s comfort, and had that variety of 
little tables in convenient neighborhood which is one 
of the happiest departures of modern taste. Book-cases 
full of costly volumes, and cabinets fresh from the hands 
of Reisener and Gouthiere, and stuffed with curiosities 
from all parts of the world, looked to superb advantage 
against a wall hung with modem tapestry that might 
almost have vied with the products of Indian looms in 
quaintness of design and harmony of color. The drap- 
eries of the windows, and the wide curtain which hung 
before the door, as well as the covers of chairs and sofas, 
were of the same fabric, duly subordinated in tint and 
pattern ; and refinement was added to luxury by the 
water-color pictures on the dividing panels of the wall, 
and by the fantastic jardinieres, full of sweet-smelling 
flowers and exotic ferns. 

Philip deliberately inspected the drawings and elabo- 
rate bric-a-brac on all sides, partly with an interest which 
came from lifelong acquaintanec with art under all its 
forms, and partly in order to reassure the shrinking and 
unfriendly little figure moving restlessly beneath its 
covering. 

There was a half-done painting on an easel in one 
corner, with all the artist’s litter strewn about, as if the 
work had been suddenly interrupted ; and one of Col- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


77 


lard^s small grand pianos stood open, with a book of 
Chopin’s waltzes on the desk. On a table, larger and 
more serviceable than the rest, was heaped a pile of les- 
son-books, among which he distinguished a beautiful 
copy of the “ Iliad,” and another of the “ Divina Corn- 
media,” the margin of which was covered with pencil- 
notes. 

He took up the latter instinctively, saying, with a 
smile, “ It is pleasant to recognize old friends;” and then, 
as he stood, began to read the words aloud at which the 
book stood open : 

“ Li ruscelletti, che de’ verdi colli 
Del Casentin discendon guiso in Arno, 

Facendo i lor canali e freddi e molli.’* 

The boy listened intently, then said moodily, Honor 
does not read like that.” 

“Then so much the worse for Honor!” said a fresh 
young voice ; and Miss Aylmer, still in her riding-habit, 
and with her soft felt hat shading her sweet face, stood 
smiling in the issue of the open door, the heavy curtain 
of which she upheld with her raised arm, making a 
charming picture. Philip dropped the book in his move- 
ment of surprise ; he had not heard the door open. 

“ I am afraid you have not been well treated, Mr. 
Methuen,” she added, coming forward with the free, firm 
step and graceful bearing which are distinguishing char- 
acteristics of the well-bom, fine-natured English girl. 
“ Sir Walter did not expect you so soon, and Adrian set 
out to meet you hours ago, and must have missed you, 
as we warned him he would. 1 am so glad Oliver has 
been friendly !” 

Her voice took a sweeter tone as she pronounced the 
name, and the animation of her face softened when she 
looked at him. 

“ I have not been friendly ! He had no business to 
come in here, but I don’t mind so much now. Make 
haste and take off your things. I thought you were never 
coming home 1” 

She promised and left the room, reflecting that though 
the stranger had shown neither awkwardness nor em- 
barrassment, he had scarcely spoken, and repeating to 
herself, with a touch of humor on her lips as she recalled 
Oliver’s objection to the perfect enunciation: 

“ Li ruscelletti, che de’ verdi colli.’* 

Shall we look at her for a moment as she stands in her 
6 


78 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


thick white gown before the glass, waiting while her 
maid ties the soft myrtle-colored sash round a waist slim 
with the bewitching slimness of girlhood, but exhibiting 
the curves of nature, not the false roundness of the mil- 
liner’s ideal? She is tall for a woman — too tall, her fe- 
male friends are apt to say ; but this defect, if it be one, 
can well be borne when allied to perfect symmetry and 
the elasticity of vigorous health, and sustained by the 
port almost of a goddess. Many faces might be more 
strictly beautiful, perhaps, but her complexion was 
touched with the finest tints a brunette can desire. 
Truth and honor sat on her brows ; humor and sweetness 
in charming wedlock lurked in the corners and moulded 
the lines of the beautiful lips ; and never did a less self- 
ish and more loyal heart beat than that which throbbed 
in Honor Aylmer’s bosom, and lighted the tender pas- 
sion of her face. 

When she came back to Oliver’s room — and leaning 
over the boy to resettle his pillows, showed in every 
look and tone an almost maternal kindness — Philip Meth- 
uen watched her with a close observation of which he 
was scarcely himself conscious. 

She seemed to him the verification of some vague 
ideal which, until he saw her, he did not know he had 
ever conceived. 

“ I have been talking to Philip Methuen a little,” said 
Oliver, with that spice of spitefulness which comes of 
such experiences as his, “ and he does not like Chopin at 
all, and thinks your picture badly done.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Honor, almost with an accent of pain. 
“ I dare say such a critic as Mr. Methuen may think my 
picture bad ; but Chopin !” 

Philip looked at her and smiled with that impersonal 
air which gave at once an individuality and a distinction 
to his manners, as the absence of eagerness and self- 
assertion invariably does. 

“ That I do not like Chopin is quite true. Miss Aylmer ; 
but you will scarcely believe that I had the impertinence 
to condemn your painting?” 

“ But you said,” shrilled Oliver, lifting himself a little 
on one elbow in order to look into his face — “ you said 
- — what was it you said? — that the composition was con- 
tradictory. In a good picture, of course, the composi- 
tion is not contradictory !” 

Honor blushed a little. “ I am afraid that I must agree 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 79 

with Oliver, that you meant that it was bad, if that was 
what you said ; but I am quite prepared to prove that I 
think your criticism worth listening to.” 

She turned and went toward the easel, Philip follow- 
ing her. 

It was a landscape, representing sunrise over some 
Eastern clime, and although unfinished, was, so far as it 
went, a more than commonly good specimen of amateur 
work. 

I flattered myself it was clever,” said Honor, with a 
sigh. 

“It is clever,” replied Philip; “and when you draw 
from nature your work must be very good indeed.” 

“ And how do you know this is not drawn from nature? 
Many girls have travelled in Africa.” 

“ Then if you have. Miss Aylmer, you must have paint- 
ed this after your return. To speak like a pedant, the 
fauna and flora are not in keeping — not possible, in fact. 
Such trees do not grow side by side, and those animals, 
spirited as they are, do not live in the same latitudes.” 

“ Ah, that comes from drawing in blind confidence 
upon an ill-educated fancy ! I see you have not the least 
idea of the subject of my picture — it is the Happy Val- 
ley of Rasselas — and I took infinite pains to gather to- 
gether in one every notion which Oliver or I could 
evolve of Abyssinian glory and beauty.” 

“ Those are the ventures which only amateurs have 
the courage to make; but the talent which is a little 
astray here is quite enough to fit you for the legitimate 
exercise of art to a degree few of your age — I need not 
speak of sex — could hope to reach, Y ou have a great gift. ” 

“ Never was the amende honorable more generously 
made !” 

“ You are mistaken in saying that. I am so little a 
man of the world, that I always mean what I say.” 

They were interrupted by a fretful voice from the rug. 

“ There, there ! that sort of talk worries me dreadfully. 
I want you to play something, Honor. I am all wrong 
to-day. I should like what he dislikes.” 

“ You will not mind?” she asked, smiling. And sitting 
down at once to the piano, began to play one of Chopin’s 
most subtle and intricate waltzes with admirable ex- 
pression and skill, Oliver following every phrase with 
eager, nervous fingers. 

While she was playing, Adrian opened the door and 


8o 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


came in. He looked pale and tired, but his face bright- 
ened on seeing Philip. At the same time he made a 
sign to keep silence, and sinking down on the conch 
nearest to him, was presently as much absorbed as his 
brother in the music. 

As Honor rose and turned round to speak to him, he 
said: 

“ Don’t ask me any questions, you know my abhor- 
rence of the note interrogative ! I have missed my man, 
and tired myself to death, but I am all right now. Sit 
down and go on again — you seem to play better than 
ever, and do credit to the lessons in town. When Chopin 
is rendered by such fingers as yours, I am in heaven !” 

“ Then it must certainly be the heaven of Mahomet,” 
said Philip. 

“ What !” cried Adrian, “ is there an Index Expurgato- 
rius for musicians as well as writers? What is wrong 
with Chopin?” 

“ To my mind he is of the earth earthy, weaving his 
spells out of the lower elements of human nature, and 
therefore false to the end and aim of true art.” 

“ Ah,” returned Adrian, with his delicate smile, “you 
are too much in advance of us ! So far as Chopin goes, 
we three are in the first stage of innocence, unable to 
discern the evil from the good. There are subtleties of 
intuition imbibed at St. Sulpice which leave Oxford far 
behind.” 

Philip colored. “ You must not believe that all I say 
and do is derived from St. Sulpice ; nor that it is a clois- 
ter, as you seem to imagine. Besides, I have gone occa- 
sionally into society, both in Paris and Florence.” 

“We have no difficulty in believing that; and you de- 
ceive yourself prodigiously, my good fellow, if you fancy 
that your personality is strongly suggestive of the clois- 
ter. You are .an enigma which Honor and Oliver will 
help me to solve. By the way, I am so glad you have 
got over your first introduction to my brother.” 

“ I am afraid that it arose from a mistake, and that he 
has not forgiven me.” 

“ It was a mistake,” said the boy ; “ but I am not sorry 
now. I think I shall be able to get on with you — you 
did not stab me with your pity. And you told Honor 
her picture was wrong.” 

“ And that is a claim upon your gratitude when Miss 
Aylmer is so good to you !” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 8i 

” It is a claim upon my confidence ; every one else 
tells her she is perfect.” 

“ And so she is,” said Adrian, looking at her tenderly. 
“ I should have to reflect all night to discover a fault in 
Honor.” 

At that moment the girl’s name was called in the 
hearty, ringing voice of the master of the house. She 
rose eagerly to obey the summons. 

As she passed Adrian, she whispered, “ Spare me to 
Mr. Methuen ! He may be of Oliver’s temper, and hate 
what is overpraised.” 

When she was gone, Adrian rose and stretched him- 
self wearily. 

“ I am overtired,” he explained. “ Why does a man 
walk who has a horse in the stable.^ I expected to meet 
you half-way or nearer, and positively got as far as 
Skeflington. Then it occurred to me to call at the vic- 
arage, where I had the good luck to find Mrs. Sylvestre 
out, and the children swinging in the orchard.” 

“ And you stayed to swing them.^” 

“ Pardon me. That would be an effort quite out of 
my line. They swung one another, and I walked about 
under the trees with Anna Trevelyan. Tell me, if you 
don’t mind, all about her — in regard to yourself.” 

“ There is very little to tell,” said Philip coldly. “ I 
was the friend of her father, and have known her from 
a child. Mr. Trevelyan was Mrs. Sylvestre ’s brother.” 

“ But she talks about you as if you had been the good 
genius of the family, and her own peculiar God Al- 
mighty. There is nothing like you in heaven or earth.” 

Philip colored with vexation. “ Why did you encour- 
age her to talk at random? The explanation is, she is 
ardent and impressionable, and has few friends.” Then 
another thought struck him. “ I think you are often at 
the vicarage, where my visits are almost forbidden, and 
I am deeply anxious about Anna. It has occurred to 
me, since I have seen Miss Aylmer, what a help and 
safeguard her notice and friendship would be. Could 
it be managed? Would there be difficulty or objection 
on any side?” 

Adrian’s face lighted up. 

“ There would be Mrs. Sylvestre ’s standing objection 
to anything that made life pleasanter, but we will try 
and get over that. It is an excellent idea ! Honor will 
be sure to take kindly to such a singular girl, and I have 


82 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


a constitutional, inclusive passion for beautiful children, 
though I see you scarcely reckon Anna Trevelyan under 
that head. We will brace her with Dorothy, and per- 
suade Mrs. Sylvestre to let them both come to Earles- 
court together. Then we will introduce her to Oliver.” 

” You will introduce no girl to me,” said the boy dog- 
gedly. “ And now, please, both of you go away. I am 
weary to death of lying here, and want to get back to 
my couch. Don’t wait ! I have my stick close beside me. 
I hate to be helped or watched.” 


CHAPTER XIL 


“ How sweet I roamed from field to field, 

And tasted all the summer’s pride, 

Till I the Prince of Love beheld, 

Who in the sunny beams did glide. 

“ With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 

And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; 

He caught me in his silken net 
And shut me in his golden cage.” 

—Blake. 

The fortnight which Philip Methuen was to spend at 
Earlescourt lengthened itself to a month. There was 
not a member of the charming household who did not 
find some special attraction in the grave, gifted, unself- 
ish young fellow, who, in his turn, felt himself surround- 
ed by an atmosphere so healthy and genial as to be in 
itself a new sensation. 

Sir Walter Earle, himself one of the members for the 
county and an ardent partisan, discussed politics with 
him at every convenient opportunity, with a view, as he 
said, of impressing on the blank paper of his mind the 
proper ideas and opinions for his future guidance, also 
undertaking at the same time to direct the channels into 
which his historical researches should fiow. 

So strong were the baronet’s personal convictions, that 
he did not stop to doubt whether the principles he enun- 
ciated and maintained so vigorously were received with 
due submission by the pupil whose intelligence was so 
prompt and whose patience was so invincible. 

Philip had been trained to silence and docility ; but 
they erred greatly who supposed that he was prepared to 
sacrifice any portion, however small, of his individual 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 83 

judgment and freedom. Religion might have demanded 
such sacrifices, and from her recognized and austere de- 
mands there was nothing he would have wished to hold 
back ; but his path had been diverted, and as regarded 
society and the world at large, he reserved to himself 
perfect liberty of thought and action. Only until his 
knowledge was riper, or the necessity for some decision 
arose, there was no need to talk about himself. 

Adrian in his turn availed himself of his new friend’s 
rare capacity for quiet, sympathetic listening. 

“I can tell you my complaint,” he said to him, “in 
very few words. I was either bom without the faculty 
of enjoyment, or I lost it when I grew too old for almond- 
toffy. There is nothing under the sun I care about. I 
have no call to work for money or position — they will 
come in due time without my earning them. I think 
college honors not worth winning, and politics a bore, 
besides being more or less a dirty game. I never carry 
a gun, it is too much fag; and I don’t care to see the 
high-flyers spin and fall. I have had some hot school- 
boy friendships ; but when you have walked over a fel- 
low’s mind, that kind of thing grows tame; and I shall 
always be afraid to marry, lest the same thing should 
happen with my wife.” 

Philip colored. “ It is a breach of honor to say that 
when I know who your wife is to be !” 

Adrian raised his eyebrows. “ Is it? You are too 
squeamish, though I should be loath to fail in any point 
of observance to the dearest girl in the world. Heigh- 
ho ! I wish my life had not been cut out for me ! I shall 
be driven to look to Anna Trevelyan for a diversion. 
Dolly is a dear little bit of soft stuff, with a pretty taste 
in fairy tales ; but a measure of resistance is indispen- 
sable.” 

“ But I thought you were a passionate reader?” 

“ I have been, but am one no longer. I took my 
youthful fevers so severely that they weakened my sys- 
tem. I was a drivelling idiot over Byron — not his poet- 
ry, but the man and his life:, his ‘cry stormily sweet, 
his Titan agony, ’ reached the marrow of my bones. I 
would have made a pilgrimage — ay, with peas in my 
shoes — to any person or place where I could have learnt 
something more about him than I knew — and I knew 
every line which has ever been written about him. 
Have you any sympathy with a craze of that kind?” 


84 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ I can quite understand it ; but have you walked over 
the length and breadth of Byron’s mind?” 

“ You are mocking, I perceive; but none the less I an- 
swer ‘Yes’ boldly, and will add that of almost every 
other English poet also, except, of course. Browning, 
who has still left me some hard nuts to crack. But — on 

second thoughts we will have no more biits Let us 

go and look up Honor — no doubt she is shut in with 
Oliver — and persuade her to go with us to Skeffington 
and make friends with Mrs. Sylvestre.” 

Philip made no objection, and they found her, as 
Adrian expected, playing her usual part in the boy’s 
room. She held a book in her hand, from which she had 
been reading aloud. Oliver protested angrily against 
his brother’s interruption. 

“ She is reading ‘ Sohrab and Rustum, ’ ” he cried, “ and 
we have just got to the fight, and must go on. Adrian, 
I hate you! Who cares for that trumpery girl, Anna 
Trevelyan? and I don’t want Honor to go away half the 
day. We are going to make a picture out of the story!” 

Honor laughed and blushed. “ I wish you would not 
betray all our little secrets, Oliver. Mr. Methuen will 
think me more presumptuous than ever.” 

Philip had taken up the open book she had put down, 
and his attention was so fixed upon the page that he did 
not hear her. 

Oliver looked at him with a pleased smile on his eager 
face. 

” You like it! you like it!” he cried, in his shrill tones; 
“I see you do. Very well; let Adrian and Honor go, 
and you shall read to me.” 

He spoke like some Eastern despot appointing his 
grand vizier. 

” Who wrote ‘ Sohrab and Rustum, ’ Miss Aylmer?” 
asked Philip. “ I know you read Homer — this is Ho- 
meric !” 

He read a few lines aloud. The fire of an intense en- 
thusiasm lighted up his face as he spoke. The girl with 
her keen artist’s perceptions thrilled a little. 

” It is fine,” said Adrian, simply, as if his words set the 
seal; ” I don’t think even Tennyson at his best has gone 
beyond the power and pathos of the death-scene.” 

Philip was still reading. He carried the book to the 
window, and stood absorbed for a little time. As he put 
it down, he said : 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


85 


“ Tennyson, did you say? No doubt you know Tenny- 
son much better than I, but at least no page of his which 
tells a story has come under my eyes comparable to this. 
This is large, heroic, simple, like Nature or Fate. Ten- 
nyson elaborates with the craft of a virtuoso. Let me 
take your place. Miss Aylmer, after luncheon. It will 
be a pleasure to me to read this all through and over 
again, and it is perfect weather for a long walk. You 
look pale.” 

“Oliver is a selfish little brute,” said Adrian, lan- 
guidly, “ and must learn to do with less of Honor. It is 
an infamy! I declare you are looking quite fagged. 
Walking is out of the question — we will ride together.” 

“ You and I?” asked Honor. “ Oliver is not selfish — he 
won’t mind being left alone for an hour or two, and Mr. 
Methuen at least should get the benefit of the weather 
he thinks so perfect. I know he and Sir Walter were 
shut up for hours in the library this morning.” 

“ My father never knows how time passes when he is 
riding his political hobby, but I guess that Methuen does. 
We want you to call on Mrs. Sylvestre, Honor, and make 
a conquest of her good-will. Both Philip and I think to 
know you would do Anna Trevelyan a world of good, so 
we are to persuade her aunt to let her come and see us, 
and bring sweet little Dolly in her train. You will be 
quite willing?” 

“ I shall be quite willing ; but one word from Mr. Meth- 
uen himself would surely go further than all you or I 
could say — wouldn’t it?” 

She looked a little wustfully at Philip, who had taken 
up his book again. 

“ On the contrary, my interference would lead to a 
summary refusal. Mrs. Sylvestre is a selfish, worldly 
woman, who will be quick to see the advantages of her 
daughter and niece being on visiting terms at Earles- 
court. I see them too, so clearly, on other grounds, that 
I am bold enough, as poor Anna’s friend, to beg you to 
make her the offer of your friendship. I can think of 
nothing so likely to help her as to know you, Miss 
Aylmer.” 

He spoke so simply that Honor took herself to task 
because she felt her cheek flush and heart beat; but she 
inwardly resolved that no powers of persuasion with 
which she might be gifted should lie dormant that after- 
noon. 


86 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Afternoon visitors were not numerous at Skeffington 
Vicarage, so that Mrs. Sylvestre felt a little disconcerted 
when Janet brought her Honor’s card. Although the 
rack would not have forced the admission from her lips, 
she was profoundly flattered by the attention. 

Adrian Earle counted for nothing when he came in his 
meaningless way to see Dolly, bringing her books which 
she would have been better without reading, or presents 
much too costly for a little girl. But a visit from Miss 
Aylmer, a young lady of fortune in her own right, and 
the future mistress of Earlescourt also, whose name was 
as a sweet odor through the whole district — this did 
count. Her notice would be worth having for her girls. 

It was not often that Mrs. Sylvestre, scrupulously neat 
in her person, kept a guest waiting ; but on the day in 
question, in keeping with the usual contrariety of things, 
she was still wearing her morning gown, having planned 
to pick strawberries for preserving, in the cool of the 
evening, with her children and governess; and conse- 
quently Adrian and Honor had not only full time to ex- 
haust the poor resources of the colorless room, but to 
grow a little impatient before she entered. 

Adrian was astonished and amused at Mrs. Sylvestre’ s 
pleasant accost. He would have said it was not in her 
power to be so gracious ; but when he glanced at Honor’s 
sweet face and noble, winning air, he allowed that it 
was simply impossible for any one to resist her. 

Honor was explaining that, ever since Adrian had 
made Dolly’s acquaintance, she had been anxious to 
know her too, thinking if Oliver could be induced to 
make friends with her, it would do him so much good. 

“ There is nothing we all deplore more,” she said, 
“ than his nervous dread of strangers, and the influence 
of a sweet little girl like Dolly might be of inestimable 
advantage. Will you be good enough to let us try?” 

“ Dolly is very shy,” was the answer, “ and would be 
more afraid of Mr. Oliver than he of her.” 

At this moment the door was abruptly opened, and 
Anna entered, holding a book in her hand. 

“ I know it !” she said sullenly. “ Miss Sewell said I 
was to bring it to you.” 

She advanced scarcely within the threshold of the 
door, and spoke without lifting her eyes, so that a mo- 
ment or two elapsed before she discovered that Mrs. 
Sylvestre was not alone. 

Whatever irritation that lady felt at so ill-timed an 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


87 


interruption, she restrained the manifestation of the feel- 
ing, conscious that she could not do otherwise in face 
of Adrian’s courteous recognition (which he took care 
should not be too friendly) and Miss Aylmer’s kind de- 
sire to be made known to the stranger. Almost before 
she was aware to what she was committing herself, she 
had yielded to Honor’s gentle pressure, and had con- 
sented that Anna should bear Dolly company for a few 
days’ visit at Earlescourt. She was probably the less 
reluctant because Anna’s indifference was obvious; her 
notice of Adrian and his companion was of the slightest 
— her whole air and manner showing what her aunt char- 
acterized as “ insufferable effrontery.” 

She was summarily dismissed to summon the more 
gentle Dolly, with the intimation that she herself need 
not return. 

‘‘ My niece. Miss Aylmer, has been a source of pro- 
found anxiety ever since I undertook the charge of her, 
but she is more unmanageable than ever since I found 
it my duty to put a stop to her intercourse with young 
Mr. Methuen.” 

Although anticipating the nature of the answer. Honor 
asked simply: “ Was it really a duty?” 

” To preserve her from becoming a pervert to Roman- 
ism? My dear Miss Aylmer, we are absolutely respon- 
sible for the souls we have in our keeping ; and consider 
also my position in the parish ! If a young person under 
the vicar’s guardianship turned Papist, it would be an 
indelible disgrace to the family.” 

But had you reason to think Mr. Methuen would have 
used his influence in that way?” 

Mrs. Sylvestre smiled significantly. “ He could not 
help himself ! Did a Jesuit priest ever forego the chance 
of making a pervert, or of denying the intention of so 
doing, when it suited his purpose?” 

Adrian could scarcely contain his patience, even under 
the eager touch of Honor’s restraining hand, who wel- 
comed the entrance of Dolly as a fortunate diversion. 
To the young man’s affectionate inquiry if she would 
not like to come and see him at home, Dolly answered, 
with a deep blush and an anxious reference to her moth- 
er’s face, that “ there was nothing in the world she 
would like so much.” 

So with this auspicious issue of her embassy, Honor 
rose, saying that she herself would drive over to fetch 
the children to-morrow. 


88 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


CHAPTER Xm. 

“What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil; 

Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines 
For all the heat o’ the day. . . . 

God did anoint thee with His odorous oil 
To wrestle, not to reign.” 

^E. B. Browning. 

There are certain crises in our lives when we pause 
and find ourselves astray — off the track we had striven 
to keep — face to face with the things we have feared and 
hated — cut away from the hopes and possible chances 
which would have made us good men or happy women. 
And then we look round eagerly for the fetish on which 
to vent our despair. We will not arraign Providence, for 
we have relinquished that belief, nor Fate, for it is 
pagan ; but we pour forth the acid of our self-contempt 
on the short-sightedness of human prescience, the weak- 
ness which is mastered by the relentless force of circum- 
stance. 

“ Had we but known !” is a wail eloquent with human 
defeat. 

As Honor Aylmer’s charming little pony-phaeton 
bowled down the avenue of overarching beeches on its 
homeward way to cheery Earlescourt, in the riotous 
glamour of the August sunshine, her own generous heart 
all aglow with interest and sympathy for the pale, large- 
eyed, silent girl who sat beside her, how little she 
guessed that she was weaving with her own hands the 
warp and woof of her untoward destiny, and introducing 
into the harmony of her life the note of discord that was 
to jangle all its sweetness. 

As they drew up before the fine facade of the house. 
Honor saw with what grave scrutiny Anna appeared to 
take note of it, and at the same moment Adrian ran 
down the stately flight of steps which led to the entrance- 
hall, to assist them out of the carriage. 

“ My sweet little Dolly, you look like Titania herself 
in that white frock. Welcome to Earlescourt! We are 
going to have a good time together. Miss Trevelyan, I 
see you are taking the measure of my ancestral home. 
Does it please you almost as well as Methuen Place?” 

“ It is bigger,” said Anna coldly. She looked eagerly 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


89 


about her with a wistful expression in her eyes, almost 
piteous in its intensity. Adrian felt a movement of an- 
noyance. 

“ Shall I show you the gardens before we go into the 
house Do you think, Honor, we may make a raid on 
the peaches? 1 want the children to have sweet recol- 
lections of Earlescourt.” 

He met Anna's direct level glance, touched with an 
expression of careless scorn. She walked past him and 
entered the house with Honor, while Adrian, bound by 
his promise, led Dorothy olf in the direction of the hot- 
houses. 

As the two girls crossed the hall. Honor, moved by a 
sudden impulse, stood still for a moment and kissed 
Anna. 

“ I want you to be very happy here, "she said; “ to for- 
get the troubles you have at home, or, better still, to tell 
me all about them. I want you to be fond of me, Anna. 
I have no very dear girl friend." 

" Don’t !" cried Anna, in a sharp voice of pain. “ I can 
bear anything better than kindness — it kills me !" 

She threw up her head with a defiant movement, try- 
ing to conquer the sobs that rose in her throat, and 
Honor thought she had never seen misery more intense 
than gleamed in the dark depths of her eyes. 

“ I am not good,” the girl went on. “ It is no pleasure 
to me to see other people happy ; they always seem to 
me to have stolen my share. A place like this, full of 
all that heart can wish — ^beautiful things, kind people 
who love one another — makes me feel dreadfully how 
empty and cruel the world is for me. Why am I so poor 
and you so rich? Why was the little I wanted taken 
away, and you have got everything — everything'^ What 
good will a few days’ rest do me, when I must go back 
into slavery? Do you understand?" 

"I think I do," said Honor gravely; “but we must 
talk all this over another time, and it shall not be our 
fault if Earlescourt in the future shall not be able to 
brighten Skeffington. Come, I will take you upstairs to 
your room myself, and we will have some tea together. 
We do not dine till eight." 

“ Will Philip Methuen be here by that time?" 

Honor colored. “ I did not know you knew he was 
here, and am not quite sure it is right for you to meet 
under Mrs. Sylvestre’s objections." 


go 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH. 


“ I always know where he is,” was Anna’s answer; 
and if I had not found him here, I should have gone to 
his own house to see him.” Then after a pause, she 
added, leaning back against the balusters and looking 
intently at Honor : ” It is of no use for any one to try to 
separate me from Philip Methuen. He is my one friend 
till I die, or he. He made me what I am— I mean, I 
should even be worse than I am had it not been for him. 
When he first came to see us, seven years ago, I could 
neither read nor write. He taught me from the first 
miserable beginnings, and persuaded my father to go on 
teaching me when he went away. My father always 
seemed to think it did not matter how ignorant a wom- 
an was. I did not mind a bit either, but no child ever 
worked harder in its blundering way than I : and Philip 
said I had great talents and got on wonderfully fast. I 
have not great talents,” said the girl solemnly; “he is 
mistaken there, but I would have cut off my right hand 
to please him.” 

She moved forward as she said the last words, and fol- 
lowed Honor into the room. 

“It seems strange all this is for me,” she went on, 
looking round upon its dainty elegance with discriminat- 
ing eyes ; “ but it is not such things that I crave after — 
not pretty clothes even,” glancing at Honor. 

She sat down in a low chair and leaned her head on 
her hand. 

“But, my sweet Anna,” cried Honor, kneeling down 
beside her, “ be reasonable ! Even were your aunt dif- 
ferent, even did you live here, you could not be always 
with your friend Philip. It is hard upon women that 
such friendships never seem practicable for them. Be- 
sides, he is not going to stop here in the country with 
womenkind and the growing crops — he is to be a great 
man in the great world of London.” 

“ But I shall see him to-night?” 

“Yes; we expect him back in time for dinner. He is 
spending the day with his uncle, and after dinner, if you 
like, no one shall speak to him but you.” 

It was almost the first experience Anna had had of the 
amenities of social life. The routine, completeness, and 
ease of the domestic arrangements struck her as unex- 
ampled luxury; and the ordinary appointments of the 
rooms and service produced the effect upon her mind of 
an Arabian Night’s entertainment. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


91 


Philip only came into the drawing-room just as the 
gong sounded for dinner; and as the good-natured Sir 
Walter had already taken the beautiful young stranger 
upon his arm, she was obliged to content herself with a 
word and a smile. 

Her host placed her by his side at dinner ; but Anna 
took no part in the talk that went on around her, and 
which was indeed almost a strange language to her. 
The easy flow of speech, the bright remark and prompt 
rejoinder, the pleasant give-and-take of familiar social 
intercourse, were all unknown conditions to her. She 
smiled scornfully when she observed how merrily little 
Dolly was chatting with her gracious patron, Adrian 
Earle. When he turned his attention to her, Anna had 
nothing to say to him, piquing his interest by her genu- 
ine indifference to his attractions, and perhaps also by 
the undisguised interest with which she seemed to hang 
on Methuen’s most casual remarks. She ate little, and 
spoke less, contenting herself with gazing at each 
speaker by turn, with the steadfast mournful look which 
gave such a tragic air to her face. 

When the girls were come into the drawing-room. 
Honor felt a certain relief on finding that Anna was able 
to interest herself in a superb volume of photographs, 
illustrative of Roman and Florentine art and antiquities. 
She even invited Dorothy to look over them with her, 
promptly identifying everything that had come under 
her own observation, and making an occasional remark, 
which showed there had at least been careful culture in 
this direction. 

“ Oh, I have been in and out of these galleries from a 
child with my dear father, ’’she said, in answer to Honor. 

He used to say they were the only nursery I had ever 
had. I could always draw,’' she added, with a smile, 
“ though I found it hard work to learn to write.” 

She turned to the illustrations of Or San Michele, and 
found the St. George of Donatello. 

“ My father always said that Philip Methuen might 
have served for that model. I have drawn Philip’s por- 
trait scores and scores of times, but he is changed.” 

“ For the better?” asked Honor, smiling. 

Anna shook her head decisively, and at the same mo- 
ment Philip himself came in. 

“ I have got leave of absence early this evening. Miss 
A3dmer. I hope I am not come too soon, but I wanted a 


92 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


long talk with Anna. No, please, don’t think it neces- 
sary to go away — I want you to help me.” 

Whenever Philip looked at Honor Aylmer there was 
always an indefinable change in his expression — an 
added gentleness — a shade of instinctive reverence of 
which he was himself profoundly unconscious. Also,- 
his eyes always lingered on her face a moment longer # 
than necessity required: it was to him so exquisitely 
sweet a face, and he was anxious to observe if there 
were signs of weariness or depression in it. He knew 
how exacting were Oliver’s demands, and how constant 
was her response to them. 

“ I must go home to-morrow,” he went on to explain, 
still addressing Honor. “ Lord Sainsbury is to arrive on 
a two-days’ visit, and you know I am his servant at com- 
mand. He has, it appears, some important communica- 
tion to make, and Sir Giles is ill at ease. He fears some 
flaw in the indentures ” 

“ Which would be rather matter for rejoicing with you?” 

“No; I did not mean to imply that. My interests are 
now identical with my uncle’s.” 

He paused. There was a look in the girl’s eyes which 
plainly said that if he cared to go on and speak of the 
profound disappointment of his life, her interest and 
sympathy were waiting on his words. It is not true he 
felt no inclination to yield to the temptation, but at least 
it was conquered as soon as admitted. 

“ No,” he repeated more firmly; “I have entirely ac- 
cepted Sir Giles’ views. My chief anxiety is lest I 
should disappoint him ; but the disappointment shall not 
come from any lack of effort on my part.” 

Then he became aware that Anna Trevelyan was 
watching him with a look of angry impatience : all this 
was outside her stringent claims on his time and notice. 
With a slight inward feeling of annoyance, he drew a 
chair to her side and sat down. 

“ Dolly and I,” said Honor, rising, “ are going to vent- 
ure to bid Oliver good-night,” and she led the child out 
of the room with her, and the two strangely assorted 
friends were alone together. 

Philip turned and looked at Anna’s lowering face with 
a quickening sense of displeasure; then to qualify it 
came the prompt thought of her miserable upbringing 
and forlorn condition, and he put his hand upon her 
bowed head with a caressing touch and smile. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


93 


“ Come, Anna,” he said, “ this is one of the golden op- 
portunities of life ! I should have come to see you at the 
vicarage; but this is far better. When I am hard at 
work in London, I shall comfort myself with thinking 
that you have a powerful friend in Miss Aylmer, and 
that Earlescourt will make even Skeffington endurable.” 

She was silent, having shaken off his touch by a quick 
movement, and now sat with head erect and scornful 
eyes averted. 

“ What is wrong?” he asked, coldly. “ Do you not ap- 
preciate the good fortune which has fallen to your 
share?” 

” How can I answer you?” she broke out, passionately, 
as if the words forced themselves against her will. ” I 
don’t know how to express what I feel, but you are not 
the Philip Methuen of old times. You are cold as a 
stone. You are careless of my feelings, of my rights, of 
your own promises even. What did you tell me that 
dreadful day in Florence? That you would be my friend 
as long as I lived — that you loved me dearly ! Do you 
think that young lady who has just gone away has any 
reason to believe that you love me dearly?” 

Philip felt equally perplexed and distressed. He had 
a deep-rooted intention of fulfilling his pledges of friend- 
ship to poor Lewis Trevelyan’s child; but he began to 
doubt whether, under the influence of excited sympathy, 
he had not expressed himself too strongly in the past, to 
which she clung so tenaciously. He had not meant 
more than that he loved her as he loved everything that 
appealed to his compassion and exercised his impulse 
to heal and bless. Also, words which well befitted his 
lips as priest on the verge of consecration bore a differ- 
ent significance under his changed conditions. He re- 
called with uneasiness Adrian’s careless comments on 
their relations. Anyway, he was fully conscious that 
there was no response in his heart to the ardent chal- 
lenge of her looks and reproaches. 

” Tell me,” he said, “ what you expected or wished me 
to do, and where my affection has failed. I never cease 
to think about you with the solicitude a brother feels for 
a dear sister.” 

As she remained obstinately silent, he went on again. 

“ There is a good deal of resemblance in our situations, 
Anna. Suppose we look at them from the same point 
of view. We have both been torn up from our roots and 

7 


94 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


transplanted to this far-away comer of England. Life 
comes to us with a new face, and demands a new line of 
duty. There will be no peace for either of us, unless 
we consent to submit to this and make the best of it. I 
have made up my mind to do the ‘day’s work forced upon 
me without a glance before or behind. Can’t you do 
the same? You profess to love me; what we really 
love, we obey and imitate. I shall look for acts, not 
words.” 

“ There is a difference,” she said, doggedly; and you 
are either cheating yourself, or trying to cheat me, when 
you talk like that. All your changes are for the better, 
and you know and feel that they are ; all mine are for 
the worse.” 

Philip turned a little pale, as his habit was when 
moved. 

That is an insult, little Anna,” he said, “ though 
your mind is not fine enough to perceive it. Let that 
pass, for I only want to talk to you about yourself. I do 
not agree that your old life was better than your present 
life ; but even if it had been, you could not have gone 
on living it. You will outgrow your regrets for the 
fond, ignorant old nurse and the wild life at the Fiesole 
farm — even for the dear father who can never come back. 
New interests, new hopes and larger thoughts will come 
to you if you will open your mind to receive them. I 
know your aunt is austere ; but there are your cousins, 
and uncle, and your good governess to love, and in the 
future Miss Aylmer will be your friend.” 

“ And suppose I do not want Honor Aylmer for a 
friend, and, much as I hate Skeffington Vicarage, I 
should prefer to stay there forever rather than come 
again to fine, beautiful Earlescourt?” Her voice shook 
with passion. 

“ In that case,” he answered, coldly, “ I should think 
you both blind and thankless, and that I have been mis- 
taken in believing that you had a generous heart at bot- 
tom.” 

“At bottom!” she cried. “What do you mean? At 
the bottom of what was my generous heart to be found?” 

Philip looked steadily into the girl’s pale, defiant face. 
Her eyes scintillated with anger, her delicate nostrils 
quivered and dilated. 

“ It will be better for you to hear the truth. At the 
bottom of that selfish perverseness which has cost your 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


95 

father many hours of bitter anxiety, and makes me al- 
most despair of you at times.” 

Anna recoiled as if she had been struck. 

” Mother of God,” she ejaculated, “ hear him ! You are 
cruel ; you have given me a blow. I hate you, Philip !” 

She was beside herself with rage and pain ; the more 
so, perhaps, that he made no sign, but remained quite 
still and unmoved. Then suddenly seizing his hand, 
which was hanging close to her touch, she bowed her 
mouth upon it, and set her small square teeth in the 
flesh. The next moment the paroxysm of fury was 
spent, and she sank to the floor at his feet, a miserable 
heap of penitence and shame. 

Philip caught her up from the ground with a feeling 
of intolerable pain ; but it needed all his strength to pre- 
vent her falling again into the same posture of self-abase- 
ment. He was forced to seat her beside him, and to 
pass his strong arm round her palpitating body. Her 
head drooped so low on her breast that her face was con- 
cealed by the falling masses of her hair ; but he felt the 
heaving of her sobs and the hot rain of her tears on the 
hands which supported her. Words failed her; but no 
words could have given expression to her humiliation. 

“Anna,” he said, gently, “forgive yourself! I think 
nothing of it. It is only one proof more that you are 
still a child. It is an old trick not quite cured ; and you 
were right — I was cruel !” 

He passed his hand caressingly over her head 'as he 
spoke. He saw she could not speak ; but he went on, 
trying to weld the iron while it was hot. 

“ I was cruel,” he repeated, “ and perhaps I was unjust. 
Prove it to me, Anna ; make me proud of my friend and 
sister in the future 1” 

“ You are still cruel,” she murmured; “ your kindness 
kills me. Give me something hard to do !” 

She had ventured to look up — he met her eyes with a 
slight smile. 

“ I will,” he answered; “but you must not think I 
speak to vex you. What am I to say to a girl who tells 
me, as you did when we last met, that God, religion, 
and duty are words which have no meaning to her mind? 
Poor child, I can scarcely blame you, and I will help you 
if I can. Take some human example of goodness, and 
try and live up to it — it will lead you one step nearer 
the divine. Do you follow me, Anna? A sweeter, less 


96 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


selfish woman than Honor Aylmer never drew the breath 
of life. If you want to be loved — to be something better 
than happy — use your utmost best to grow like her.” 

Undoubtedly Philip Methuen’s zeal was greater than 
his discretion ; every word that he spoke was a fresh 
provocation to the girl who was listening to him. She 
actually shivered with the intensity of her repudiation ; 
humiliation and shame were forgotten. She looked up 
keenly into his face, and said : 

“ It is a good thing you did not become a priest — you 
will be able to marry this sweet young lady.” 

He started a little, and the color rushed into his face. 
The insolent words cut deep. Although he did not know 
it, his whole soul was steeped in reverent tenderness for 
the girl whose gracious nature he had been studying 
through the long days of familiar intercourse the last 
month had afforded. But the suggestion thus coarsely 
thrust upon him seemed at once a treason and an out- 
rage. A new feeling of repulsion from the speaker 
vaguely stirred in his breast, and he involuntarily moved 
farther away. 

“ You speak like a child,” he said, “of things you do 
not understand ; but it will be better for you to know 
that Miss Aylmer is to marry Mr. Earle.” 

He would have added something more, but to his un- 
expected relief an interruption was made by the en- 
trance of Sir Walter and Adrian from the dining-room. 
The first inquiry of the former was for Honor ; the latter 
sat down by Anna’s side, and looked curiously into her 
face. 

“ Excuse me,” he said, “ I am naturally impertinent, 
but I think you and Methuen have been quarrelling.” 

“ You are right,” she answered, promptly, “ but it has 
been all my fault.” 

Her eyes, still red with her bitter tears, sparkled ; her 
lips parted with an enchanting smile ; her beauty seemed 
suddenly to have thrown off its veil. The words Philip 
had just spoken permeated her blood like wine ; hope, 
undefined indeed, but pliant and vigorous, was born in 
her soul. It was no childish ardor that touched the ex- 
pression of her face as she looked toward Philip. With 
no hindrance between them, what should prevent the 
realization of the dream of her life? — to live under the 
same roof ; to begin and end the day together ; to clasp 
hands and kiss each other at meeting and parting ; to 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


97 


read out of the same book, and eat at the same table ; to 
walk side by side through life, none daring to divide 
them. This was what she wanted, but could scarcely 
tell him that it was, and all that fell short of it was mis- 
ery and despair. 

“Adrian, fetch Honor out of Oliver’s room,” inter- 
rupted Sir Walter; “there is a great deal too much of 
this indulgence. You make the boy worse than he 
would be.” 

“ Let me go,” said Philip, with a certain eagerness 
very unusual to him. “ It is the hours before bed-time 
he feels to hang heaviest,” and he had left the room be- 
fore Sir Walter’s impatient objections had reached his 
ears. 

He paused for a moment at the foot of the staircase, 
and raised his clasped hands to his head. He was 
twenty-four years old, and this was the first moment 
that any touch of the perturbation of passion had stirred 
the depths of his soul. He stood there for several min- 
utes quite motionless outwardly, but conscious of the 
flow and movement of inward forces, latent until the 
words of Anna had quickened the life within them. 
Scarcely out of his cloister, and love had come to him 
already ! To him, whose existence almost from infancy 
had been a protracted act of consecration, and who had 
been prepared to accept the denials and abstentions of 
the priesthood, with the superb confidence and humility 
of those who know their strength to be God-derived and 
therefore invincible. His feeling, in that moment of in- 
tense self-concentration, was that he had fallen from the 
cool, serene heights where the human soul communes 
with the heavens above, into the unwholesome and heat- 
ed vortex of worldly strife and passion. It was as if a 
knife had been laid to the very roots of his honor and 
pride and cut them down at a blow. 

Further, for whom had he thus fallen? For a girl 
whom he knew to be the pledged wife of another man 
before his eyes had even seen her. But was this feeling 
that possessed him love.? Love was said to be urgent, 
aggressive, imperious; pressing down every obstacle be- 
tween itself and the possession of the thing beloved; 
ready to barter and forego on the right hand and on the 
left, if only the supreme object were attained. 

But he, he thought, could go through life unsatisfied 
yet content, so long as the sweet serenity of Honor’s life 


98 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


was untroubled. The strongest wish of his soul was, 
not to be happy, but to see her happy, so that the joy 
and tender radiance of her natural temper might be un- 
dimmed by disappointment or any spiritual turmoil. 
And this was to be accomplished, not by him — ah, God, 
no ! — but by sweet-tempered, affectionate Adrian Earle, 
who had been the first to hold out the hand of friendship 
to himself. So let it be ! 

Then came another turn of thought. Standing there 
in the cool stillness of the moonlit hall, with the deli- 
cious rustle of leaves softly stealing through the wide- 
open doors, and the divine calm of a summer night 
brooding over the lovely outside v/orld, it followed, al- 
most of necessity, that reason and duty should make 
themselves heard. Also, there was the acute sense of 
spiritual outrage to help him now. But in the future? 
Chance would throw them often together; she would 
approach him with the same winning friendliness she 
had shown him all along. He seemed to see the eager, 
outstretched hand, the arch smile on the lovely lips, and 
the tender light in her eyes waiting to meet the answer- 
ing glance in his. She would question him about his 
doings, quick to comprehend every point of his position, 
quicker still to sympathize with difficulties and regrets 
that no one seemed able to understand or suspect but 
herself, and yet he had told her nothing ! Adrian, too, 
would talk to him incessantly about her, insisting on her 
sweetness and her charms — consulting him about their 
united plans, asking advice here, proposing alternative 
arrangements there — discussing their approaching mar- 
riage, where they should travel, where live, what gifts 
he should offer. 

Should he be equal to the task which in this hour of 
clear insight he had implicitly accepted, and never per- 
mit his secret to escape his rigid control? Worse : would 
there be no moments of perilous weakness in which he 
should cease to care to do so — when courage and honor 
failed under the divine smile of the sweet blue eyes, and 
his soul rushed to his lips? 

He heard Oliver’s door open and shut, and the rustle 
of a woman’s gown. She was coming downstairs and a 
meeting was unavoidable. He changed his posture, 
rallied his self-command, and waited for her at the foot 
of the staircase. 

“ I have been sent to call you,” he said. “ Sir Walter 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


99 


wants some songs, and I have lingered shamefully on my 
errand. I have stood here thinking the hall enchanted, 
and regretting that I am going away to-morrow. ' 

“ To-morrow ! I suppose you must go away to-mor- 
row. But what will Oliver do without you? You have 
spoilt him for all of us.” 

“ I am going to him now to bid him good-by, for I 
shall be gone before he is up to-morrow. I am glad he 
has made friends with me.” 

Honor looked at him with the words she was going to 
say unspoken on her lips. A ray of moonlight fell di- 
rect upon him, and, though it may seem a rash state- 
ment to make of a young Englishman in evening dress, 
she thought Anna Trevelyan was every way right in 
comparing him with the St. George of Donatello. 

It was not so much the beauty of the face, nor the 
strength and grace of the figure, but a certain noble, 
self-controlled dignity which seemed to suggest the idea 
of the youthful Christian warrior. A line from Spenser 
flashed across her memory : 

“ Right faithful, true he was, in deed and word: 

But of his cheere did seem too solemn sad.” 

“If it is really your last evening,” she said — “and I 
am glad to see you seem to regret it — let us go back to 
Oliver’s room together for an hour. Anna has told me 
that you are a great musician, which you have kept a 
profound secret, and Oliver, that you have sung to him 
when you and he were alone. I will not repeat what 
they say about it, for it would vex you ; but I ask if you 
have dealt kindly with your friend, knowing my passion 
for music? Let me hear you before you go awa}^ !” 

“ I think I would rather not, though I would do much 
to give you pleasure. I am not at all at home in draw- 
ing-room music. What I sang to Oliver were echoes of 
the churches — chants, and hymns, and spiritual songs. 
I should have to unmake myself before I could sing to 
please a fashionable audience.” 

“ I will not urge the point,” she answered; “ I see I am 
not judged worthy. But Lord Sainsbury is a fanatic in 
music ; he will discover your gifts, and overcome your 
scruples. My aunt, whom I am sorry to say you do not 
yet know, is sometimes at his town house ; she and his 
sister are great friends. Y ou see what delightful chances 
of meeting there will be for all of us in the future ! Be- 
sides, there is a long stretch of time between this and 


lOO 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


February, and Methuen Place always spends Christmas 
at Earlescourt.” 

She smiled, and was going to pass him on her way to 
the drawing-room, when he interrupted her intention. 

If you will allow me. Miss Aylmer, I will bid you 
good-by now, for I have half promised my uncle to be 
with him by breakfast-time, and shall start too early to 
see you again. I thought yesterday I had been careless 
of his comfort in staying here so long, but the charm of 
this house was so new to me, I fell into the snare. You 
have all shown me a kindness I can never repay.” 

She held out her hand at once with no shadow upon 
the brightness of her face. 

“ I am glad we are your first friends, and have won 
you,” she said; “ for when you go into the great world 
you will soon have so many, we should have stood no 
chance.” 

She looked back and waved her hand as she entered 
the stream of light from the open door of the drawing- 
room, seeing that he still stood watching her, and then 
she shut the warmth and sparkle in with her, and Philip 
went slowly upstairs to Oliver’s room. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air 
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
Unto our gentle senses.” 

—Macbeth, 

It was eight o’clock in the evening of the next day, 
and the three great windows of the dining-room at Meth- 
uen Place stood wide open to the terrace and lawns, and 
the splash and tinkle of the fountain, the waters of which 
gleamed crimson and gold in the intense sunset glow. 

A small oval table was laid for dinner for three, with 
exquisite precision — the finest of damask, the choicest of 
the seldom-used treasures of plate, had been produced 
and furbished for the occasion of Lord Sainsbury’s visit, 
which was one of exceeding anxiety to the old servants 
of the family. The menu of that evening’s repast had 
been studied and elaborated for days in the spacious sun- 
lit kitchen of the house, for it was felt that the social 
credit of the establishment was at stake. Every flaw 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


lOI 


and omission would be promptly detected by the great 
man accustomed to feast at kings’ tables, and would be 
scored to their own master’s disadvantage. 

The guest at this hour was already arrived, fetched 
from the station in the old brougham by the superannu- 
ated grays, which had been so contemptuously reported 
upon to Philip on the first day of his arrival at Triches- 
ter, and which occasioned great searchings of heart to 
the old coachman himself, who had known them through 
every stage of their existence. Even Sir Giles had 
shaken his head dubiously as he saw them brought round 
to the front, with as much dash and effect as. their ad- 
vanced age admitted. 

“ Undoubtedly Sainsbury will think it a sorry turn-out ! 
A smart pair from the ‘Antelope’ would have been bet- 
ter, but it is too late now. Bennett will do his best to 
rouse them on the way in, but don’t make any excuses, 
Philip.” 

Philip was going to the station to meet their guest. 

” It would never have occurred to me to do so. So 
long as we give him of our best, a guest is well 
served; but my impression is that Lord Sainsbury is 
less exacting than you imagine.” 

Assuredly had the chariot of the sun been awaiting 
him, the great man could not have appeared more per- 
fectly satisfied. He had nothing with him but a small 
portmanteau, which Philip himself took from him as he 
pulled it from under the seat of the railway carriage. A 
whisper had got abroad among the little crowd at the 
railway station who Sir Giles Methuen’s guest was, and 
his tall, spare figure and marked countenance were rec- 
ognized by a few among them, and swift as light the 
information flew. Some hats were lifted, a faint cheer 
raised, and while these marks of recognition were gra- 
ciously acknowledged by their object, Philip observed the 
flush of annoyance that came over the pale, weary-look- 
ing face. 

” This way,” he whispered; ” if we go through the sta- 
tion we shall be close upon the carriage ;” and in a few 
moments more Lord Sainsbury was leaning back 
against the well-padded though moth-eaten cushions 
with a look of intense relief upon his face. 

” What a country, Methuen, for a fox-hunter !” he said, 
looking out upon the glorious expanse of downs which 
swelled to the horizon on either hand, as soon as they 


102 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


were well clear of the precincts of the town. “ Do you 
appreciate your privileges, or has your foreign training 
smothered the national instincts?” 

“ In a very great measure, I fear. I can ride, but not 
to hounds. I have not a spark of enthusiasm in that 
direction ; but I hope a taste for fox-hunting is not con- 
sidered by Lord Sainsbury a necessary part of a young 
man’s equipment?” 

“ I have always thought myself,” returned the other, 
stretching himself more at his ease, “ that the life of a 
country squire is the most enviable under the sun, grant- 
ing that one had no ambition beyond it.” 

Philip smiled. 

“ Ah ! I see you are already putting me down as a 
speaker of platitudes ; but in official life we are all speak- 
ers of platitudes. There is no more useful accomplish- 
ment for a man to possess than the being able to utter 
some axiom with an air of engaging originality.” Then, 
suddenly changing his tone, he asked abruptly, “ You 
are still in the same mind in my behalf, Mr. Methuen?” 

“ Yes.” 

I warned you at the embassy — in jest it may have 
appeared to you, but it was done in all sincerity — that I 
was a man hard to please and difficult to live with, and 
I wish to repeat the warning. If a political career be 
your object, I can help you materially, no doubt, and I 
am disposed to do so ; but you will have to buy the ben- 
efit dear. I never spare myself nor my subordinates. I 
expect people who work under my orders to be able to 
coerce the flesh to the spirit, and I am completely intol- 
erant of sickness, feebleness, and fatigue. Simply, the 
matter in hand must be got through in due course — I ac- 
cept no excuses.” 

“ It is difficult to pledge one’s self absolutely to unlim- 
ited requirements, but all the strength of body and mind 
I possess I am prepared to place at your service.” 

“ Not, I hope, with any expectation of ready and affec- 
tionate recognition. I never praise any man, and I 
thank very few. I am given to understand that you are 
a devout Catholic.” 

“ So much so that, were not your faith the same, I 
should not now have the honor of listening to Lord 
Sainsbury ’s conditions of service.” 

Lord Sainsbury looked at him keenly, and Philip met 
the protracted gaze modestly, it is true, as became his 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 103 

age and position, but with perfect firmness. A slight 
smile touched his companion’s thin lips. 

“ On that point we shall probably not quarrel,” he an- 
swered ; ” but it strikes me you have preserved an un- 
usual faculty of independence after some twelve years* 
training in the Abbe Olier’s seminaries. That is a mat- 
ter of no consequence to me, except under chances of 
mental collision. Should such chances occur, it goes 
without saying that my will is absolute.” 

Philip made no reply. 

‘‘You reserve the point, Mr. Methuen?” asked Lord 
Sainsbury, sharply. 

‘‘ Only under circumstances which are never likely to 
occur — a question of duty to a higher authority than 
yours.” 

” I think,” was the answer, “ you may rest satisfied on 
that point. My notions of duty to queen, church, or 
country, to my own honor or the honor of another man, 
are possibly on as high a level as Mr. Philip Methuen’s. 
I can even conceive of the possibility of difference of 
opinion between us, when the supreme right might not 
lie with him !” 

The tone was trenchant, and there was a flash in the 
steel-blue eyes which gave a full illustration of his own 
recent warning. It was perhaps the influence of his 
severe training to obedience, or the natural generosity 
of his temper, that the only feeling excited in Philip’s 
mind by this spurt of indignation was one of compunc- 
tion and regret. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, simply; “I see I have 
been guilty of an impertinence without intending it. I 
meant no more than that there are occasions when no 
man can judge what he ought to do but himself.” 

The apology was coldly received, and for the rest of 
the way conversation flagged ; but as the carriage turned 
in at the park gates. Lord Sainsbury uttered an excla- 
mation of pleasure. 

“ What a pleasaunce !” he exclaimed. “ Here, in fact, 
stand Tennyson’s ‘immemorial elms. ’ We Sainsburys — 
mere mushroom-growths of the present century — have 
nothing to show like this. On the strength of Methuen 
Park, Philip, I am disposed to forgive you — you may 
well hold your head higher than I.” 

He repeated these compliments with still greater 
suavity to Sir Giles himself, who stood waiting to re- 


104 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


ceive him on the threshold of his door» and won the heart 
of every member of the household by some word of recog- 
nition or gracious expression of delight in his surround- 
ings. 

From the ancient Banksia rose-tree which grew close 
up to his chamber-window to the fine old plate which 
had been buried under the floor of the stable during the 
wars of the Parliament (which story Sir Giles was never 
reluctant to tell), not a point was too insignificant to 
catch and claim his notice. 

By the time the successful dinner was over, and the 
exquisite home-grown dessert placed on the table, which 
had been wheeled close to the wide issue of the open 
window. Sir Giles’ slight anxieties were all allayed, and 
he was conscious of the profound satisfaction of the man 
whose hospitality to an honored guest has been a quiet 
but complete success. 

Lord Sainsbury leaned back in his chair with an in- 
tense enjoyment of the charm of the situation. The 
moon was at the full, and her unclouded light not only 
revealed the outline of every flower and tree, subduing 
each diverse tint to lustrous silver, but paled the flame 
of the lamps and candles inside the apartment, produc- 
ing effects of weird picturesqueness. 

It seems strange,” he said, “ that a man with such a 
paradise as this in possession and prospect should want 
to fight his way through the thorny world outside! 
Were I in your nephew’s place. Sir Giles, I should select 
some Eve to share it with me, and sit down with her 
under the ancestral fig-tree till summoned to the paradise 
above !” 

“ Philip prefers to earn his heavenly reward, and has 
no taste whatever for the dolce far niente; also you for- 
get, my dear lord, that it is only to the weary that rest 
seems desirable. Still, there is a young man, a near 
neighbor of ours. Sir Walter Earle’s eldest son, who has 
marked out for himself precisely the programme you de- 
scribe. He is engaged to be married to the most de- 
lightful girl in Dorset.” 

“ Ah !” said Lord Sainsbury, languidly, my sister 
knows the family, and is anxious to press me into the 
train of the young lady’s admirers — somehow opportu- 
nity failed last season. By the way, do you know Miss 
Aylmer, Mr. Methuen he asked, with sudden abrupt- 
ness, and facing round full on Philip. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 105 

“ I have spent the last month at Earlesconrt in daily 
intercourse with her, and I think my uncle might have 
safely challenged, not Dorset only, but all England to 
find her equal.” 

The light was not good enough to observe his face so 
closely as his interrogator desired, but at least the readi- 
ness of reply and quiet, level tone might be supposed 
calculated to disarm suspicion. Nevertheless, Lord 
Sainsbury smiled slightly to himself with an increased 
satisfaction in his own acuteness. 

“ I think,” he said, after a little pause, “ that the time 
is come to explain to you. Sir Giles, why I ventured to 
ofiPer myself as your guest. I attributed it to the desire 
to discuss more fully with you the details of your 
nephew’s appointment — and that, in brief, is my motive. 
The fact is that circumstances have changed so materi- 
ally since we last met that I preferred to state them in 
person.” 

Sir Giles bowed a little stiffly. Had the great man 
changed his mind? 

“ Do not for a moment suppose,” the other resumed, 
quick to observe the impression produced, ” that I wish 
to go back from my engagement. I may add that the 
little I have seen of Mr. Methuen to-day has considerably 
increased my personal desire for closer relations ; but 
the bargain stood for London. If the venue is changed 
to Calcutta, I am not so unreasonable as to expect it to 
hold good.” 

There was a brief shock of surprise ; then Sir Giles ex- 
claimed, with rather forced heartiness, ” Is it to be so? 
I congratulate you with all my heart. The Government, 
then, have at length discovered ” 

“ The Government have discovered nothing at all • but 
have been forced to accept the resignation of another 
faithful, ill-used public servant, who has worn out health 
and strength of body, brain and conscience, at the post of 
highest difficulty and responsibility. He is only wait- 
ing for his successor to go out before he comes home 
to die.” 

“ I withdraw my congratulations. If toughness of con- 
stitution and nerve are essential qualifications for the 
post, your decision is suicidal : you will scarcely obtain 
the consent of your friends.” 

“ I have not yet consulted them ; this communication 
is confidential, on account of your personal interest in 


io6 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


the matter. Creaking gates hang long; and there are 
some temperaments seemingly feeble which have a cer- 
tain faculty of resilience that stands in as good stead as 
thews and sinews. But the question before us now is 
not whether I am fit for Governor-General of India, but 
whether you can part with your nephew." 

Sir Giles passed his hand nervously over his eyes. 

“ There is no need for decision at present," Lord Sains- 
bury hastened to add. ‘‘ I simply put the matter before 
you for consideration, unless Mr. Methuen has already 
pronounced against the scheme in his own mind." 

“ I have not done that," said Philip; “ but I do not feel 
free to express any personal inclination. I think I can 
engage to give you an answer in the morning." 

“ Precisely; we will dismiss the matter till then." 

Lord Sainsbury retired early under plea of fatigue ; in 
reality, he perceived that Sir Giles Methuen was restless 
and preoccupied, in spite of his courtly, old fashioned 
efforts to hide the fact — evidently on the tenter-hooks of 
anxiety to ascertain his nephew’s mind on this new de- 
parture, or to express his own. 

As soon as he was gone. Sir Giles turned sharply upon 
Philip.’ 

“ You have already made up your mind in this matter? 
It is a formality to consult me?" 

There was the accusation of wounded affection in the 
tone and in the keen flash of the eyes. 

“ I have made up my mind subject to your approval. 
It is enough for you to speak the word, and I remain." 

“ Ah, I thought as much ! This is the consecrated 
youth, without ambition or capacity for diplomacy, who 
requires divine sanctions and religious aims before he 
sets out on a career! My memory is good, nephew. 
Yet you are prepared, I see, to throw over every consid- 
eration of gratitude and duty, and embrace the first 
chance of distinction which comes in your way." 

Where is the reason in arguing with the unreason- 
able? Philip naturally held his tongue. 

Sir Giles pushed away his chair and took a turn to the 
other end of the room. 

“ Is what I say unworthy of notice? At least you must 
plead guilty to having possessed a very imperfect notion 
of your own character?" 

“Yes," said Philip, in a low tone, and with a dreary 
smile on his lips, “ I plead guilty to that." 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


107 


Sir Giles was slightly appeased. He came back to his 
nephew’s side. 

“ You like this man Sainsbury?” 

"I do.” 

‘‘ And the notion of exile from England and me?” 

“ I like the notion of hard work and routine duty. I 
accepted Lord Sainsbury ’s offer, in the first place, at 
your command, and thought you would agree that it 
would look like cowardice or breach of faith to break an 
engagement because the conditions were a little changed. 
I was influenced by the knowledge I had of your own 
chivalrous sense of honor.” 

“ Also by the complete ignoring of any regret I might 
feel in parting with the nephew pledged to fulfil the part 
of a son?” 

“I frankly own I did not much consider that. You 
have known me so short a time — just three months — I 
could scarcely suppose such a feeling would be stronger 
than the decided wishes you have expressed about my 
future. But, I repeat, it only remains for you to com- 
mand me to throw up Lord Sainsbury ’s offer. Can I say 
more?” 

Sir Giles took another turn in the room. 

‘‘And how long. Nephew Philip,” he asked, dryly, 
“ do you require before you commit yourself to the weak- 
ness of affectionate regard? Three months have been 
long enough for me to discover that I liked you ; what 
period of time, I repeat, would it take to reconcile you 
to my shortcomings and peculiarities?” 

‘‘ Enough !” said Philip, getting up, “ the matter is de- 
cided. I stay here ! I am a bad hand at protestations ; 
but I will give you the most convincing proof that I love 
you. On second thoughts, three months seem to me 
long enough to form attachments which will last as long 
as life lasts.” 

He went up to the place where Sir Giles was standing 
with his back against the ponderous oak sideboard, and 
his gray eyes alight with irritation and sensibility com- 
bined, and taking the old man’s hand, kissed it with the 
charming foreign action which sat so naturally upon him. 

“ Understand me ! I will never leave you without your 
own consent. I will And some home work to do.” 

Sir Giles looked at him intently for a moment. 

‘‘ Good !” he answered. “ So let it stand ! And now 
to bed. God bless you, Philip !” 


io8 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

The next morning was spent by Sir Giles and his guest 
in a visit of inspection to the home farm, Lord Sainsbnry 
saying that he wished to absorb as many rural sights 
and sounds and fragrant breaths of cattle as the forty- 
eight hours would allow. 

Philip was not invited to join them, nor indeed had 
he much inclination. 

He had spent a great part of the night in thinking 
again over his position, which he stigmatized as one 
of shameful dereliction — in love with another man’s 
plighted wife ! 

That was the way he chose to consider it, pouring 
condemnation and contempt on his own weakness. 

Of course it was a weakness that should be conquered 
at any cost — torn up by the roots, cast into the oven and 
consumed. But the process that might have been pos- 
sible with half the world between them, and time and 
brain taxed by hard and unfamiliar work on foreign 
ground, would be not impossible, but terribly severe 
in the constant contact of society, and the far more try- 
ing intercourse of close domestic friendship. 

He had said this to himself before, when the first shock 
of discovery had startled him ; but he seemed to feel it 
the more keenly because the chance of escape had been 
offered him, and he was constrained to reject it. Be- 
sides, one may resolve to conquer in this sort of con- 
flict, and discover in the end that the victory is outside 
human nature. He could not fail to consider that the 
tender, reverential passion which he felt for Honor 
Aylmer was based on much stronger foundations than the 
love which is born of the exquisite curves of a wom- 
an’s form, of the soft languors of rose-red yielding lips, 
and of drooping, love-lighted eyes. 

If he loved her because of her sweet intelligence and 
goodness, how could he cease to love her so long as 
these qualities endured? It seemed to him as if some 
superhuman hand had touched the sealed fountains of his 
manhood, and bidden the living waters flow to vivify and 
strengthen every faculty he possessed. This love, which 
must be stifled, was, after all, a form of worship — a 
phase of his ingrained religiousness; for what he 
adored was the beauty of self-sacrifice — the supreme 
virtue without which neither man nor woman would 
have pleased him. It was the total absence of this fac- 
ulty in Anna Trevelyan which was changing his early 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH. log 

tenderness into a sentiment almost approaching repul- 
sion. 

Well, there would have been no danger to others, and 
perhaps only a salutary pain for himself, if he had cher- 
ished this holy passion in the silent depths of his heart, 
and delivered up utterly all the rest of himself to Lord 
Sainsbury’s demands. Sitting immersed in official busi- 
ness under his chief’s strenuous influence, in the far- 
away palace on the Hooghly, with the monotonous beat 
of the punka overhead and a heathen city around him, 
he would have had short time for the indulgence of a 
personal sorrow. 

For all that, the decision of last night was binding ; 
suffer what he might, his first duty was to the generous 
kinsman who had accepted him as a son. 

He spent a solitary day. His uncle and Lord Sains- 
bury did not return to luncheon, but sent him a message 
that they had taken a sudden resolution to call upon Sir 
Walter Earle, a circumstance, illogical as it may appear, 
that by no means added to Philip’s tranquillity. 

He spent an hour in wandering vaguely about the gar- 
dens, speculating upon the impression that Honor would 
make on Lord Sainsbury, and going over in his own 
mind the whole circle of her gifts and graces, with that 
inherent capacity for self-torment which a hopeless lover 
possesses. 

At length, heartily ashamed of himself, he returned 
to the house, and taking up his books of systematized 
study, read and wrote with forced perseverance till the 
shades of evening began to fall. 

Then, with a sensation of almost physical pain gnaw- 
ing at his heart, none the more tolerable because he tried 
to ignore or deny it, he pushed aside books and papers, 
and sitting down to an old piano the library contaixied, 
allowed himself the relief of uttering through this finer 
medium the feelings to which no other expression must 
be given. 

The music to which he was most accustomed served 
his purpose. The well-known “ Misereres” and chants 
which touch the hearts of careless thousands of English 
and American strangers who throng the vast area of St. 
Peter’s at Christmas and Eastertide were familiar to 
him; and there is a certain movement of Bach’s — “ De 
Profundis” — wh^ch seems to include the whole diapason 
of human necessity and aspiration. 

8 


no 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


So well did it respond to the mood of the singer that 
when the last notes had died under his fingers, he in- 
stinctively went back and repeated the whole marvel- 
lous passage again. As he brought it a second time to 
a conclusion, he was startled by a deep sigh of satis- 
faction from the recesses of a distant chair, and Lord 
Sainsbury, rising up from it, came toward him in the 
deepening twilight. 

He looked deeply moved. 

“ Good heavens, Methuen !”he said, “ what power helps 
you to sing like that.^ You might have the sins and sor- 
rows of a world upon your soul, with faith and courage 
enough to lay down all the burden at the feet of God ! 
St. Sulpice must have a far wider range of experience 
than I imagined. But what is the matter? You are dis- 
pleased?” 

“ Pardon me. Lord Sainsbury, I think I have every 
right to be displeased. I believed that I was alone.” 

His eyes flashed, and his face was white with indigna- 
tion. His feeling was that a stranger had come in by 
stealth and read his naked soul. Lord Sainsbury laid 
his hand kindly on his shoulder. 

Hear reason,” he said. “ As I came into the house I 
heard the sound of a piano, which I could no more resist, 
when touched as you touched it, than steel can resist the 
magnet. I was too far off to distinguish your voice at 
first. It was no fault of mine that you were so engrossed 
as not to hear me open the door. 1 simply availed my- 
self of a privilege I had no idea you would begrudge me. 
I bless the powers who endowed you with such a voice, 
and the teachers who have had the training of it ! Please 
God, Methuen, you shall be the David to my Saul !” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ Sir Giles did not mean to take you at your word last 
night — there is a touch of almost feminine inconsistency 
and sensibility about the old man. He desired to see 
you willing to stay, that it might be in his power to bid 
you go. I am very pleased you have decided to cast in 
your lot with mine.” 

The rest of the evening was taken up in discussions of 
the now accepted event. Sir Giles stipulated for not 
more than two years’ absence, and constant correspon- 
dence. 

“You will then come home for good and marry,” he 
said. “ You will marry the wife that I shall have spent 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


III 


the interval in choosing for you. Lord Sainsbury will 
come home too. The power of resilience he speaks of 
will have become flaccid by that time, and change will 
be imperative.” 

The last words Lord Sainsbury said to Philip the next 
morning, as they walked up and down the platform at 
Trichester waiting for the up train, were : ” Sir . Giles 
thinks I am not going to start for the next month or two, 
and I had not the heart to undeceive him. But I have 
received my marching orders already. We shall sail in 
ten days’ time. You will get your summons by to-mor- 
row’s post. Bring your uncle up to town with you. 
Looking after your outfit will divert his mind. Good-by !” 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ To ^eat and small thing love alike can reach, 

And cares for each as all, and all as each. 

The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart. 

And never yet might pain for love depart.” 

—Trench. 

There are periods of time when a month, even a day, 
may include the issues of a lifetime ; and again, in the 
experience of most of us, long periods occur when the 
wheels of existence drag slowly and heavily, with little 
seeming advance upon the onward track. 

Honor Aylmer was nineteen years old when Philip 
Methuen went to India, and her life had been as une- 
ventful as that of most girls of her position who are too 
carefully guarded for much variety of incident. ♦Too 
young to remember her parents, her mother’s devoted 
friend, Miss Earle, had accepted and fulfilled the charge 
of her with such tender fidelity that the girl scarcely 
missed what she had lost. When Sir Walter Earle’s 
wife died, and Miss Earle was invited by her brother to 
assume the control of his household, she made it a con- 
dition that she might bring her adopted daughter with 
her, and that henceforth Earlescourt should be consid- 
ered her home. 

It was a happy day for all concerned when the lovely 
little girl appeared among them. Adrian was at that 
time twelve years of age, being four years older than 
Honor, and the younger boy, deformed and crippled 


II2 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


from his birth, was a puny, suffering child of three. 
From that time to the present she had been the playfel- 
low, nurse, and teacher of the one, and the fellow- 
student and bon ca77iarade of the other, who threw off his 
mental indolence for the first time when he found how 
closely the limpid-minded, keen-witted little girl trod 
upon his footsteps. For the most part the two studied 
together under the same masters until Adrian went to 
Brazenose — for the boy, unfortunately for himself, was 
held to be too delicate for a public school ; and even 
when he had entered upon his Oxford curriculum. Honor 
did her best to keep pace with him, so far as home teach- 
ing allowed. She was one of those girls, becoming in- 
creasingly uncommon, for whom study, family affection, 
and homely interests sufficed; she did not continually 
demand, as essentials of existence, new books, fresh 
scenes, and a succession of pleasures. As a matter of 
social routine she was carefully prepared to play her 
part in society, and was taken up to town in due course 
to make her courtesy to her sovereign ; and after that 
event she and Miss Earle spent a month or two in the 
height of the season at the fine old family house in Ar- 
lington Street, while Sir Walter devoted himself to his 
political duties, and Adrian was their ready attendant at 
theatres, galleries, and concert-rooms. As Honor was 
herself a very clever artist and musician, these things 
drew her with a resistless magnetism, as did also the 
opportunities she enjoyed of the higher forms of social 
intercourse which Sir Walter Earle’s position naturally 
provided for her. 

But she always returned to Earlescourt with satisfied 
content, to pursue her favorite studies with a zest which 
made of the last point gained the starting-place for new 
attainments, and with her love and sympathy and pa- 
tience toward poor young Oliver animated by absence to 
greater devotion. It was indeed well for her that Miss 
Earle was always on watchful guard to prevent her car- 
rying her ardor too far on both these lines, and to insist 
on as much open-air exercise and neighborly intercourse 
as seemed good for body and mind. 

It had been a matter of private arrangement between 
brother and sister that Honor and Adrian should marry 
if their childish affection could be trained into a feeling 
of mutual regard, both perceiving that the indolent and' 
self-indulgent young man could have no better incentive 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 113 

or safeguard in life than the serene and generous stead- 
fastness of the girl who had walked by his side from 
childhood. At the time they had made Philip Methuen’s 
acquaintance this scheme was pretty well known and 
accepted by the outside world; and without any definite 
explanation or engagement, the young people had tac- 
itly acquiesced in it themselves — the one being fully 
persuaded that a sweeter, more loyal creature never 
drew the breath of life ; and the other, that no woman 
could ever have Adrian’s welfare so near her heart as 
she herself. Besides, it would please Oliver. 

During the long winter which succeeded Philip’s de- 
parture, Anna Trevelyan lived much at Earlescourt, and 
ultimately spent weeks there together at a time, being 
associated by Honor in her own lessons in music and 
painting. She even gained the entry to Oliver’s cham- 
ber, and would amuse him by the hour together with 
rapid and spirited caricatures of every person with whom 
she had come into contact or even only casually seen ; 
or by passionate descriptions of Florence and its treas- 
ures of art and her own wild life in her early past. 

She had, too, a certain gift of improvisation which fas- 
cinated the boy. It was not worth very much intellec- 
tually, but when a strikingly beautiful girl recites with 
passionate feeling, in an imperfectly understood lan- 
guage, verses or rhetorical apostrophes out of her own 
head, the listener is not often disposed to be critical. 
Anna at such times looked magnificent ; and the audi- 
ence was not limited to Oliver, Adrian being constantly 
in attendance. He also amused himself by teaching her 
to ride and shoot at a target, accomplishments which 
she readily acquired and delighted to exercise. It was 
true that in his delicate, languid way, he often made fun 
of her and aroused her scornful anger ; but she pleased 
him as much and excited him more in these moods than 
in her quieter ones. 

It was a new thing to him to be in constant intercourse 
with a girl who was always offering him fresh surprises, 
and upon whose reception of friendly advances it was 
impossible to calculate. 

Honor, in her turn, found Anna’s society stimulating, 
and was so deeply anxious for her welfare and improve- 
ment that she was sometimes at a loss to understand the 
motive which influenced her. Anna was acutely per- 
ceptive, and made rapid progress in any study which it 


1 14 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

suited her to pursue ; but there was no breadth nor depth 
in her intellect, not a touch of the humility and venera- 
tion without which there is no true discipleship. Also 
there was in her nature a radical and persistent selfish- 
ness, which forbade the hope of any really fair structure 
being raised on so mean and narrow a foundation. 

Oliver Earle, with his keen susceptibility, soon dis- 
covered this flaw of character. 

“ Why do you like Anna Trevelyan, Honor?” he asked 
one day. “ Sometimes I hate her, or should hate her, 
only she is so splendid to look at.” 

His eyes dwelt wistfully on Honor’s face. 

“ Don’t mind my saying that,” he added. “ Hers is a 
heauti du diable, as I heard Adrian telling her the other 
day; yours — how shall I put it? Come close and kiss 
me, dear!” 

She did as he asked, and he saw, what was very un- 
usual, that there were tears in her eyes. 

“ Yours,” he continued, pressing her hand against his 
cheek, “ is more like that of Guercino’s Guardian Angel, 
as Browning puts it. You are one of the ‘ Birds of God. ’ ” 

The feeling of sadness which was associated with Anna 
in Honor’s mind was of so subtle a character as to be 
difficult to explain. It was no longer because the girl 
complained of misery or oppression in her aunt’s family, 
for either she had learnt a measure of conformity or the 
rule of harshness was relaxed. One circumstance alone 
made a great difference : there was no longer any diffi- 
culty in getting her to learn. She was now avid of 
knowledge such as women of society are conventionally 
supposed to possess. Then her intimacy with the 
Earlescourt family counted for much. Mrs. Sylvestre 
was too diplomatic to put it in the power of her niece to 
pour forth reasonable complaints in her passionate way 
to the sympathizing household, nor was she blind to the 
contingent advantages which accrued to her own chil- 
dren. But Honor was conscious that, with all this intel- 
lectual and material improvement, there remained a 
want in the girl of that finer sense and breadth of aspira- 
tion which were necessary to fit her — for what? For that 
development which Philip Methuen expected. 

Anna Trevelyan was one of the few to whom he wrote 
at long intervals, and these letters she was in the habit 
of showing to Honor Aylmer, as conferring a certain 
distinction and establishing that link of connection be- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 115 

tween them to which she tenaciously clung. The letters 
themselves had no strong personal interest except as 
minute and careful replies to her own. 

His clear-sightedness and fidelity in all matters relat- 
ing to the faults and errors which Anna freely exposed 
in her correspondence sometimes made Honor smile 
with an odd feeling of relief from some latent anxiety, 
and excited a burst of indignant disappointment in 
Anna. 

“ In my eyes he has no faults,” she said on one occa- 
sion. “ Why does he not look in the same light at me?” 

For the rest, there were intelligent observations on 
the scenes and circumstances by which he was sur- 
rounded, as recorded by a superior mind for the instruc- 
tion and amusement of an inferior; but of personal or of 
political details there were none. The fact was, he felt 
bound to answer the frequent letters he received, and 
equally bound to moderate the extravagant and errone- 
ous impression of the closeness of their relations which 
he perceived with anxiety Anna cherished. 

These letters formed a curious contrast to those which 
Philip Methuen wrote by every mail to his uncle, and 
in which he did his best to daguerreotype his daily life 
for the satisfaction and amusement of the latter. There 
was scarcely an interest or an event, personal, social, or 
political, which was not transcribed for the benefit and 
interest of this exacting but affectionate kinsman. He 
showed him how he lived and what he was, with a vivid 
fidelity which certainly helped to bridge over the dis- 
tance between them; only reserving that innermost 
circle of experience which no wise man or woman dis- 
closes to any human ken. 

And so the uneventful months flowed on till the two 
years of his absence had been accomplished and the 
third begun. 

During this protracted period the subject of Adrian’s 
and Honor’s marriage had been often renewed, but the 
event, though still regarded in the light of a foregone 
conclusion, was invariably postponed under some plea 
or another. 

Naturally it was Honor who raised the difficulties, 
but an ardent lover would soon have disposed of them. 
Adrian had never been that : his father said with a sneer, 
born of profound if concealed disappointment, that his 
temperament was too tepid for any great passion ; but 


Ii6 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

the girl who had known him from a boy, and whose in- 
sight was quickened ' oth by her intellect and affection, 
was of a different opinion. 

It was the growth of a strong if not a great passion 
which was coming between them. She saw the increas- 
ing fascination which Anna Trevelyan, to whom each 
month seemed to bring a finer development of her su- 
perb beauty, exercised over him. Adrian had long 
ceased to rally and reprove, and contented himself now 
with a close, watchful observation. Honor had studied 
his face as he sat listening to Anna’s improvisations and 
drawn inevitable conclusions. 

During the third season after Methuen’s -departure 
Anna had been invited to accompany the Earles to town, 
and had taken a passionate delight in all the pleasures 
she could grasp — first and greatest being the admiration 
she herself everywhere excited. 

It was a subject of indignant mortification to Miss 
Earle to see how entirely the loveliness of her own be- 
loved ward was eclipsed by the defiant beauty and au- 
dacious unconventionality of the girl whomever seemed 
to recognize the goodness which had been heaped upon 
her, or the almost divine patience with which her prov- 
ocations were endured. It was on this occasion that 
Adrian, who had often absented himself from his father’s 
town-house during the season, kept his fashionable terms 
with the greatest assiduity. 

He was at Honor’s side as companion and convoy per- 
petually, not only at daylight gatherings and exhibi- 
tions, but in the ball-rooms hitherto abhorred and 
shunned. But Honor at least made no mistakes. It can 
never be otherwise than painful for a woman to feel her- 
self to be superseded in the. favor of the man who once 
loved her ; but she had the courage to recognize and ac- 
cept the truth before any one else guessed it. 

Anna was Honor’s unfailing companion on all these 
occasions, and the latter saw clearly that while Adrian’s 
loyalty constrained him to devote to her the attentions 
which were her undeniable right, it was on the looks 
and words of the other, in spite, or it might have been 
because of, her almost insolent indifference, that his ob- 
servance hung. Also, she had watched him, after he had 
scrupulously fulfilled his functions of her partner at 
some dance, seek Anna’s side with a solicitude his eyes 
never betrayed to her, and perceived that their routine 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 117 

dances were the price he paid for the rapture of a waltz 
with the woman he loved. 

He grew taciturn, irritable, and uncertain, and threw 
the blame of his temper on his health, which had never 
been robust, and talked of a journey round the world. 
Then Honor Aylmer thought the time to speak was 
come. 

“ What good would travel do you, Adrian,” she asked, 
on one of the rare occasions when they were alone to- 
gether, “ if you left behind the thing you wanted, and 
took with you the burden which I see is wearing out 
your strength?” 

He turned very pale. “ What do you mean?” he an- 
swered. “ I will never give you cause to reproach me, 
Honor.” There was that eager tone of self-justification 
in his voice which is only another form of inward dis- 
satisfaction. 

‘‘ Happily,” she answered, with an effort which, how- 
ever, she did not allow to appear, “ there will be as little 
cause as inclination for reproach. We love each other 
very dearly, Adrian — as fondest brother and sister love ; 
but we are both beginning to find out that something 
beyond that is wanted for those who are to spend life 
together. We will set each other free, and change 
nothing!” 

She could see the color come back into his face and 
the light quicken in his eyes, and involuntarily a little 
stab smote her. Her love was perhaps deeper than she 
described; anyway, it gives a pang to a woman’s heart 
to see that a man adds to his happiness when he lets her 
go. 

“Is that the truth,” he asked, “or gracious falsehood 
to reconcile me to my accusing conscience.^’ 

He looked earnestly into the sweet face which met his 
anxious, inquiring gaze so steadfastly, and then caught 
her hand in an effusion of gratitude. 

“ Honor, you have been my good angel since the day 
your little feet first crossed our door ; do not cast me off 
now ! 1 thank God I read in your dear eyes that it is not 

in my power to hurt you much ; and yet am I not caitiff 
and poltroon to rejoice that you have not found me worth 
loving? What has led you to the belief that — that we 
have both deceived ourselves?” 

He questioned her with so eager a solicitude, and with 
eyes so weary and sad, that had the facts been otherwise 


Ii8 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

her pity as well as her pride would have withheld the 
admission. She smiled, but there was a little sorrow 
and regret tempering the smile. 

“ I think I was never at any time sure how much I 
loved you, Adrian, or whether the love I had was of the 
proper complexion for a wife ; but when of late I have 
watched the expression of your face and heard the tone 
of your voice when you looked at or spoke to Anna Tre- 
velyan — forgive me, yours is an open secret! — I felt no 
manner of doubt that you at least were no lover of mine 
and — the discovery will not break my heart.” 

“ And in not being so I condemn myself,” he an- 
swered: “ those who have walked with angels should at 
least know how to worship. In revenge, no one knows 
better than I that Anna Trevelyan is of another sort, yet 
— I shall waste my life in trying to win her !” 

“ And she must be very hard to win if she resists you 
— as lover,” said Honor, smiling. “Hitherto you have 
not been free to try and she rose and left him. 

The fact of the rupture of the family engagement was 
declared at once, at Adrian’s own request. He was anx- 
ious to meet and overcome the disappointment and dis- 
pleasure he knew it would excite — also to win his fa- 
ther’s consent to his choice. Sir Walter Earle, though 
bitterly annoyed at this fresh failure of his hopes in re- 
spect to his son, surprised him by a readier acquiescence 
than he had ventured to expect, to Miss Earle’s indig- 
nant amazement, whose own sense of injury, not to say 
outrage, was intense. Anna preferred to Honor ! But 
the wary baronet, who had enjoyed a long experience 
of the sex, yielded the point simply because he felt con- 
vinced his son had small chance of success. He had 
watched Anna Trevelyan closely, and was morally cer- 
tain that it was not given to the delicate and fastidious 
Adrian to conquer that young lady’s arrogance and scorn. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


119 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“Love of my bonds partook, that I might be 

In turn partaker of its liberty. 

Oh. merchant at heaven's mart for heavenly ware! 

Love is the only coin that passes there.” 

—Trench. 

Such was the situation of affairs when Philip Methuen 
returned to England after an absence of almost three 
years. 

Sir Giles, after his departure, fell back into the old 
habits of seclusion and reserve, which were aggravated 
by the knowledge he had obtained from an eminent 
physician, before leaving London, that a malady which 
had long tormented his comfort, without being seriously 
regarded, had developed into an incurable and mortal 
disease. 

This fact became known to Mrs. Methuen in her Flor- 
entine villa, and at once suggested to her the propriety 
of offering herself as nurse and companion to the friend- 
less old man — a scheme which she would assuredly have 
carried out. in spite of his opposition, had not death, in 
its most sudden and appalling form, stepped between 
them. She died from the effects of a carriage accident, 
after a few days’ severe suffering, during which she lay 
taciturn and conscience-stricken, and waited on by no 
friend nearer or dearer than the old physician Richetti, 
and her maid, who was only withheld from deserting 
her mistress by a sense of shame and some hope of re- 
ward. 

‘ What a grievous pity,” said Richetti to her an hour 
or two before she passed away, “ that the good son is not 
here to comfort and sustain my lady !” 

“ Yes,” she answered; “ I dare say he would have been 
almost as kind to me as to that poor creature, Lewis 
Trevelyan. I hope he will not think so ill of his mother, 
doctor, as to spend all the little she leaves him in masses 
for her soul ! Give him that message from me if you 
ever meet.” 4 

And this message, sent by Richetti to Sir Giles Meth- 
uen, was duly transmitted to Philip, and added another 
pang to the sharp and mournful memories which, with- 
out break or alleviation, were associated with his expe- 


120 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


riences as a son. It was one note the less of recall to his 
native land. 

Meantime, there was something pathetic in the cour- 
age which enabled the failing old baronet to submit to 
the protracted absence which he felt so keenly, in order 
not to interrupt a career which was fulfilling the long- 
delayed hopes and ambition of his bfe. 

Lord Sainsbury had alleged himself to be a man chary 
of praise and recognition, and doubtless it was the result 
of a wide and penetrating acquaintance with human nat- 
ure which led him to accept the best of any man’s ser- 
vice as a matter of routine duty. Thus he made no ex- 
ception in favor of the young man toward whom he felt 
secretly a strong inclination. But he was none the less 
a man of generous sensibility, and appreciating to the 
full the sacrifice Sir Giles had made in parting v/ith his 
nephew, he rewarded it in a way he knew would please 
him best. Amid the heavy pressure of public affairs 
he managed to find time to write him an occasional let- 
ter, in which he expressed, with an ardor which would 
have astonished his best friends, his sense of Philip’s in- 
telligence and devotion to whatever work he had in hand. 

As time passed, opportunities occurred in connection 
with a case of suspected treachery in one of the native 
princes for the display of faculties of a much higher 
and more serviceable kind than those with which he had 
at first credited the young man. Methuen developed 
not only a patient sagacity in threading the mazes of 
Oriental intrigue, but a subtlety of intuition and re- 
source which promised Lo place him in the first rank of 
diplomatists. These gifts, as Lord Sainsbury pointed 
out to Sir Giles, in conjunction with the (perhaps still 
rarer) qualities of absolute fidelity and trustworthiness, 
and the natural charm of manner and person, were surely 
not intended to be hidden under a bushel, and formed an 
adequate plea for longer detention of his services. 

Then, when the renewed term had expired, an attack 
of fever, followed by a tedious convalescence, exhausted 
the Viceroy’s strength, and formed an all but irresistible 
claim upon Philip’s gratitude and regard. It was in his 
power, owing to their intimate relations, to do more for 
his chief than any other man could have done, andf .in 
meeting the appeal, so to increase the affection/ with 
which Lord Sainsbury regarded him as to render the re- 
luctance to part with him still more difficult to overcome. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


I2I 


Owing- to these circumstances, it was not until Sir 
Giles Methuen’s rapidly failing strength led to serious 
anxiety among his friends that he took the step of in- 
sisting upon his nephew’s return, in terms sufficiently 
peremptory to secure his object. But as soon as this 
was done, his impatience and restlessness became pain- 
fully acute. Philip was coming home overland from 
Brindisi, having some commissions to execute for Lord 
Sainsbury in Paris, and this fact was a source of intense 
irritation to the old man’s exhausted patience. It was 
the last straw which broke the back of his endurance. 

It was the height of the London season, and the 
Earlescourt family were established in town, with Anna 
Trevelyan as their guest, as before stated. No direct 
correspondence with Philip Methuen had been kept up 
by any member of it, all the knowledge they had of his 
Indian experiences being derived from his letters to 
Anna, or from those which Sir Giles, in the pride of his 
heart, occasionally showed to Sir Walter Earle, and 
which never failed to exasperate the sense of bitter dis- 
appointment which the latter felt in regard to his eldest 
son. Adrian, however, made it his business to ascertain 
from Sir Giles the time when Philip was expected to ar- 
rive in London, and went to Charing Cross to meet him, 
animated partly by the desire to renew their old rela- 
tions, partly with the idea of allaying by a short process 
certain anxieties which sat heavily upon him. The rec- 
ognition between the two men was instantaneous. 
Adrian himself scarcely looked a day older than when 
they parted; and though Methuen was considerably 
more altered, his personality was of a kind which ren- 
dered him easily distinguishable. 

As he stood for a few moments on the platform giving 
brief but incisive instructions about his baggage, which 
was of considerable amount, the other watched him with 
something of the critical satisfaction he had felt when his 
eyes had first fallen upon him in the dim lobby of the 
vicarage house at Skeffington. A good many other feel- 
ings combined to qualify this feeling, however. When 
one man admits the physical superiority of another, it 
is not so much on the ground of personal impression 
as from an instinctive perception of the effect he is 
calculated to produce on others — notably of the oppo- 
site sex. 

Adrian, as a lover, acknowledged at once that Anna 


122 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Trevelyan, always infatuated on the point, would think 
Philip handsomer than ever ; and, as a son, was equally 
confident that Sir Walter Earle would find in his manner 
and bearing indications of all those qualities the absence 
of which he deplored in himself. Such convictions were 
not of a kind to add warmth to his greetings, and he had 
an uneasy sense that his cordiality was half-hearted and 
constrained. 

Philip, however, did not appear to discover any defi- 
ciency ; he looked at Adrian with just the same expression 
of animated pleasure that the sensitive self-conscious- 
ness of the other had always found so acceptable, and 
inquired after every member of the family with an affec- 
tionate interest which seemed to prove that he had 
brought back with him precisely the same regard which 
he took away. 

“ But we can talk as we drive to the station. Jump 
in, Adrian; there is not a moment to lose.” 

“ The station ! My dear fellow, do you suppose for a 
moment that you are going anywhere but home with 
me? I should not dare to show my face in Arlington 
Street without you. Besides, what man in his senses 
passes through London in June, after a three-years’ ab- 
sence, without giving himself plenary indulgence.^” 

Philip’s answer was a gfance at the railway clock, and 
the exhibition of a sovereign before the responsive eyes 
of the cabman. 

“If I catch my train at Waterloo this is yours; you 
have barely eight minutes to earn it.” Then turning to 
Adrian as the cab dashed out of the station, he said, “ I 
am more grieved than I can say to refuse your invita- 
tion, but I have timed my journey to catch the down ex- 
press, and have no option in the matter.” 

“No option! What difference can four or five hours 
make to your uncle, who has managed to exist without 
you all these years? My father will take it as a personal 
offence, or if he do not, the ladies of the house certainly 
will. As for me, I look upon it as little short of an in- 
sult !” 

“ Who are the ladies of the house?” said Philip, smil- 
ing. “ Your aunt, whom I have never seen, and Miss 
Aylmer, who would sacrifice any personal wish to ease 
the anxiety of another? You do not quite understand — 
I have been delayed more than a week in Paris, which 
has vexed my uncle considerably — that I could not help. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. V23 

but I will not lose a single hour this side of the Channel. 
You will explain this at home?” 

“ Anyway, it is a sorry home-coming! I wish you joy 
of your return to Methuen Place. Sir Giles will suffer 
no outsider’s foot to cross the threshold ; and his temper, 
I am told, is simply unbearable.” 

” I am not afraid.” 

Adrian looked at him with his smile of gentle derision. 

“ Of course not! You are a man-tamer by profession 
— witness your success with Lord Sainsbury ! My dear 
Methuen, I have not properly congratulated you. You 
come back crowned with the distinction of having won 
the good word of a great man who was never known to 
praise a little one in his life ! ‘The thanks of the nation 
are due’ — you see we read the papers!” 

“We are too near Waterloo, Adrian, for me to under- 
take the defence of Lord Sainsbury — the most magnani- 
mous and least understood of* men. Come a few stations 
down the line with me; I have fifty things to say.” 

“ Good ! we will take turns at cross-examination. I 
am only too thankful to have the disposal of a couple of 
hours taken off my hands.” 

A few minutes later saw their places secured, and 
Philip leaned back in the carriage with the sense of re- 
lief which comes from a danger escaped ; also with a 
sense of fatigue arising from his unbroken journey from 
Paris. The latter, however, did not appear. 

“ Tell me now,” he said, looking across at Adrian, “ all 
about yourselves. I remember every dog that crossed* 
my path at Earlescourt ! The four weeks I spent there 
were the happiest weeks in my life — I am half inclined 
to say it was the only happy month in my life, for I have 
never had a similar experience. Do things still go on 
there in the same way.^” 

“ So much so that if you walked into Oliver’s room to- 
morrow, you would think you had only left it yesterday. 
Honor Aylmer and I, you also perceive, still stand in the 
same relation as when you went away ;” he looked at his 
companion curiously as he spoke. 

“ The same? I do not quite understand. You mean 
that you are not yet married?” 

He spoke with a self-command so perfect that it 
scarcely cost him an effort. During the three arduous 
years he had spent in India he had succeeded, not indeed 
in conquering his love — Honor Aylmer would always be 


124 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


to him the most beloved woman on the face of God’s 
earth — but at least in eliminating from it the selfish ele- 
ment. The highest happiness for her would be the high- 
est happiness for him, though he had no share in the 
making of it. If at times the doubt forced itself upon 
his mind that there was not strength enough in Adrian 
Earle’s nature to meet all the requirements of hers, he 
put it resolutely from him. Who had the power to 
measure another man’s worth, or to decide what qualifi- 
cations were necessary to a woman’s satisfaction? She 
would meet all the duties of life with a heart and tem- 
per adequate to their perfect fulfilment, and that was 
simply his own business — on harder lines. 

To transmute into the fine gold of willing self-renun- 
ciation every baser ingredient of his love, so as to attain 
wider reaches of sympathy and patience and clearer 
perceptions of what wounds and heals was not precisely 
a task he deliberately set -himself — for such results do 
not come by system or calculation — but an end naturally 
reached by a man who subjected every faculty and incli- 
nation to the law of duty. 

Fresh from such training as this, he was perfectly able 
to bear without flinching Adrian’s direct mention of 
his relations with Honor ; but his next remark tried 
Methuen’s fortitude much more severely. 

“ When I say the same,” Adrian continued, “ I mean 
our relations are in fact unchanged. We are very fond 
of each other still, as brother and sister, and we never 
cared for each other in any other way. Our engage- 
ment is broken off by mutual consent, and each of us has 
a lighter heart in consequence.” 

Philip had no answer at command. The reaction in 
his scourged and disciplined mind was so great — like 
that of a man hopelessl^^- blind opening his eyes sud- 
denly on a sun-lighted landscape — that the keen rapture 
was scarcely to be distinguished from pain. His former 
submission had been absolute, but he was quite as capa- 
ble as other men of rejoicing that the ordeal for which 
he had braced his courage was not after all to be exacted. 

“ I am so taken by surprise,” he said at last — Adrian’s 
cynical look supplying the stimulus he wanted — “ that I 
cannot decide what I ought to say on the subject; at 
least I — I earnestly hope that Miss Aylmer is well?” 

Adrian laughed. “You could scarcely hope less! 
She is perfectly well, and as sweet and fair as when you 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


125 


saw her last — she could not be more so ! But — you do 
not ask about Anna Trevelyan, Methuen — that strikes 
me as odd.” 

“ Anna has continually kept me informed of her affairs, 
and I have even received some official communications 
from Mrs. Sylvestre. I am at a loss to express my sense 
of the kindness your family have shown her — it is an ob- 
ligation which can only be felt and acknowledged, but 
never repaid.” 

“ May I ask why you appropriate the obligation? I am 
not going on farther than Weybridge, but before we part 
I want to be satisfied on a certain point : Is there any 
kind of engagement between you and Anna Trevelyan 
which would prevent any other man trying to do his best 
to win her?” 

“ There is no engagement of any kind between us.” 

Philip spoke almost sternly, and there was an air of 
solicitude in the look with which he met Adrian’s ani- 
mated glance which caused the latter the most intense 
irritation. 

“ Have you any word of disparagement to utter of the 
girl whom you have befriended from a child, and who 
repays y6ur services with the most disproportionate 
gratitude? Do you find some difficulty in wishing me 
success with the woman I love?” 

“ I find no difficulty, my dear Adrian, in wishing you 
success in any scheme which you think will make for 
your happiness, but I do not hesitate to say I deeply re- 
gret that you should look for it in this direction.” 

“ You mean that — I have no chance?” hiding under a 
sneer his secret anxiety. 

“ I mean nothing of the kind. It would be hard to 
think of you as failing with any woman whom you 
wished to please. I simply mean that — Anna Trevelyan 
is not worthy of you, and that you will find out that she 
is not worthy of you should she ever become your wife. 
I say this with pain and reluctance, but I should be false 
to our friendship if I left it unsaid.” 

“ Understand — you must never dare to say it again !” 

Adrian spoke with his face white with anger, and his 
voice and manner were almost menacing. 

“Once is enough,” answered Philip quietly; “no 
threat is wanted to insure my silence in the future.” He 
stopped, as the train at this point slackened speed, and 
the other rose with passionate precipitation. 

9 


126 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


Do you really get out here, and — do you refuse to 
shake hands?" 

“ Not if you will withdraw what you have just now 
said , otherwise — you and I cease to be friends !" 

“ On that point you can only speak for yourself. I 
shall never cease to be your friend, but I cannot retract 
words deliberately spoken." 

Adrian opened the door and jumped out; an express 
train cuts short controversies as well as courtesies. He 
was very angry, with the chivalrous anger of a knight 
whose lady has been traduced, and toward whom it con- 
sequently behooves to augment his own reverence and 
devotion. He said to himself, with the sort o* feminine 
petulance which at times marked his conduct, that not 
many hours should pass before he put his fate to the 
touch, and his future in the hands of the girl whom 
Philip Methuen pronounced unworthy of him. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“All men do err, because that men they be: 

And men with beauty blinded cannot see. ' 

— Peele. 

“ Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, 

And all my soul, and all my every part; 

And for this sin there is no remedy, 

It is so grounded inward in my heart.” 

—Shakespeare’s Sonnets. 

Adrian’s temper was by no means mollified on his 
return home by the reception given to his news of Methu- 
en’s summary departure. Sir Walter Earle, who had a 
considerable share of curiosity to satisfy, as well as good- 
will to express, felt himself decidedly aggrieved ; Miss 
Earle, who had a deep-rooted dislike to paragons, and a 
generous resentment against the allowed superiority of 
this paragon in particular, characterized his conduct as 
ostentatious and affected ; and the two girls. Honor and 
Anna, were each in their way profoundly disappointed. 

Honor felt a secret shame and pain that she had looked 
forward with such strong interest to again meeting a man 
who had proved his own indifference to the memories of 
the past; and Anna complained bitterly, as was her 
wont, and with the manner assumed by those who con- 
sider themselves robbed of their rights. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


127 


Infatuated as Adrian Earle was, interpreting her 
moods and manifestations with an ingenious self-delu- 
sion, at which Love himself must have laughed, he could 
not persuade himself, as his anger cooled, to risk the 
overthrow of all his hopes while Anna barely showed 
him civility. 

This girl was precisely of the nature to hold cheap 
what was pressed on her acceptance ; and the more pa- 
tient and obvious was any man’s devotion the more 
scornful and negligent would her behavior become. 

The one justification of the heartlessness of her con- 
duct was to be found in the singular and engrossing pas- 
sion (for no other word would fitly describe the nature 
of her regard) which she felt for Philip Methuen. All 
the little there was of good in her went to the making of 
it — the inexpressible bond of early association, and of 
an imaginative and neglected child’s gratitude for great 
and unaccustomed kindness, as shown not only to her- 
self, but to the dear, never-to-be-forgotten father. It 
might be said she owed to Methuen every good gift in 
life she had received, from the time when she had learned 
her letters at his knees to the present hour, which saw 
her, equally through his efforts, fitted to take her stand 
in society as any man’s equal. It was he who induced 
Mrs. Sylvestre to receive her, and had engaged Honor 
Aylmer’s serviceable kindness in her behalf. To him 
she acknowledged she owed her first glimpses of moral 
and spiritual truth, though they were of very little ab- 
stract importance in her reckoning except as opening 
channels for more frequent and intimate association. 

In the past she had been the recipient only ; in the fut- 
ure she was to equalize their relations by the gift of 
herself. 

She had grown up from childhood with the impression 
that he belonged to her, having pledged himself to 
lifelong affection and devotion to her interests; her 
father had died leaning on these assurances, and there 
was only one way of fulfilling them. There was so 
much of that Italian blood in her veins that even if the 
conviction of his indifference had been brought home to 
her mind, she would still have been prepared to insist 
on her rights and overwhelm his reluctance. As the 
case stood, she considered beauty the master-element of 
love ; and had not kind nature made her, Anna Trevel- 
yan, too beautiful for any man to resist? 


128 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


On the plane of physical perfection, she allowed Philip 
Methuen to be her equal. As a very young girl, she dis- 
tinctly remembered her father’s observations on this 
point : he would often express a thorough contempt for 
Philip’s devout piety and exaggerated unselfishness; 
but on the theme of his personal strength and beauty, 
he would dilate with the uncompromising zeal of a pas- 
sionate artist steeped in materialism. Can we blame 
her that, regarding her father as a being of a higher 
order than herself — it was a grain of saving salt in her 
character — she imbibed such notions with the tenacity 
of her age, and ever afterward, more or less, graduated 
her estimates by them? 

If any one, knowing the secrets of her heart — and she 
was discreet enough to be secret — had expostulated 
with Anna Trevelyan on the unwomanliness and indeli- 
cacy of her position, she would have laughed such 
scruples to scorn. What was life but the brief term of 
human existence, into which the wise and the fortunate 
press all that they can of personal gratification? 

Her happiness rested on one basis — union with the 
man she loved, and no conventional difficulties or ethi- 
cal scruples should prevent her turning to her own ad- 
vantage every chance and circumstance in her favor. 

That he had passed through London without coming 
to see her, and being subjected to the influences of her 
perfected beauty — for no one knew better than Anna 
herself what the last three years had done for her — was 
a provocation hard to bear, the only consolation being 
that Honor Aylmer had been equally powerless to at- 
tract him. She had the glaring indelicacy to question 
Adrian Earle closely in respect to the changes and im- 
provements which time had wrought in Methuen’s per- 
sonal appearance, and he the almost inconceivable blind- 
ness to attribute such eagerness to the innocent ardor of 
her childish friendship. To be Isure, he might be ex- 
cused for thinking that the delicate and subtle passion 
he recognized as love could never take so bold a front. 

Perhaps it is hardly necessary to say that the women 
of the Earlescourt family were not equally blind to Anna 
Trevelyan’s shortcomings. Miss Earle entertained a 
robust and uncompromising dislike to the beautiful, de- 
fiant girl who accepted favors as her right and repudi- 
ated the obligation of gratitude. The delicate generos- 
ity of all the rest of the family was in opposition to her. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 129 

or she would certainly have shut the door of intimacy 
against Anna Trevelyan long before the infatuation of her 
nephew served her as a weapon of offence in her indig- 
nant controversies with her brother. 

Sir Walter Earle had implicit faith in his own theory 
that it was best to give a red-hot lover his head, and that 
no one but Anna herself would be able to cure Adrian 
of his folly. He was so convinced that his son had no 
chance of success with the girl, as to consider himself 
able to act the part of indulgent parent with perfect 
safety. 

To Honor Aylmer’s mind the character of her so-called 
friend was not so much matter for repulsion or condem- 
nation as of a sort of divine pity and regret. That a 
girl so splendidly endowed should lack, as she well knew 
she lacked, every quality of the soul which makes for 
righteousness — all the finer instincts and desires which 
lift humanity out of the brutal element incorporate with 
it — seemed infinitely more pitiable than any physical 
deformity or deficiency could have been. It pierced her 
tender heart that the sweet and sensitive Adrian should 
lavish his love on a girl who was as indifferent to his 
homage as any Buddhist idol to its Hindu worshipper; 
and she was cruelly divided between the wish that he 
might get the desire of his heart, and the conviction that 
his success would be the worst thing which could happen 
to him. 

On the other hand, to associate the idea of Philip 
Methuen with Anna was, if possible, still more repug- 
nant to her feelings. So absolute was the incongruity, 
that it would be, morally, like binding the living to the 
dead ; but here she consoled herself with the belief that 
no such catastrophe was to be apprehended. He was 
strong enough to take care of himself. 

A few days after Philip’s return to Skeffington, he 
wrote to Sir Walter Earle apologizing for his apparent 
neglect of his kindness, and stating that he had found 
his uncle so much worse than he had expected that it 
would be for the present quite impossible to leave him ; 
consequently, he had been obliged to dismiss the hope 
of making his explanation in person. 

This letter decided Anna Trevelyan to cut short her 
visit to her friends and return home at once to the vic- 
arage. Her desire, or rather her determination to see 
Philip Methuen at once, and place their relations on a 


130 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

more certain and recognized basis, was growing to an 
intolerable height ; and since there was now no chance 
of meeting him in town, she had no longer a wish to re- 
main there. The difficulties of her position seemed 
rather to stimulate than restrain her purpose. 

It was obvious to Anna that, when she declared her 
intentions, the Earle family expressed no more reluc- 
tance at the prospect of her departure than kindness and 
courtesy demanded — a circumstance that, in her passion- 
ate and unreasonable mind, went far to wipe out the 
long record of services received. 

On the evening before her departure, it happened that 
Adrian, coming in early after a weary afternoon spent 
by stress of social necessity at Lord’s, found Anna alone 
in the drawing-room. 

She was sitting indolently reclining among the many 
cushions of a low couch, with that air — half-weary, 
half-scornful — which was characteristic of her. She held 
an open book between her fingers ; but she seldom read 
consecutively, and needlework was never seen in her 
hands except under Mrs. Sylvestre’s compulsion. Her 
attire struck Adrian’s fastidious eye as in exquisite keep- 
ing with her beauty. She wore a dark crimson gown, 
the soft fabric of which, unbroken by flounce or frill, 
fell in straight, statuesque folds to her feet, defining the 
noble lines and curves of her perfect form. 

She raised her eyes as Adrian entered, and dropped 
them again immediately without speaking. He was 
looking worn and wan, and there was an intense re- 
pressed irritability in his manner. His face lightened, 
however, at the sight of her. 

“ Alone, Anna !” 

“You see I am alone. Miss Earle and Honor are at 
Lady Isbister’s concert. I saw the card of invitation. 
My name was not mentioned, but yours was. Why are 
you not there?” 

“ I was going, but I have changed my mind. What is 
Lady Isbister’s concert to me in comparison with this 
room with you in it? Anna, what am I to say to you? 
I have held my peace till the fire burns. If I speak too 
soon, I cannot help it; but — be kind to me!” 

He pulled a chair close to her sofa and sat down. He 
was jaded in body and mind and intoxicated by her 
beauty. One of her arms, bare to the elbow, was care- 
lessly thrown over the padded side of the couch, and 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 131 

looked lustrous as the evening light fell upon it. Adrian 
stooped suddenly and pressed his lips upon the soft, 
warm flesh, in an eager, burning kiss. 

“ I love you ! I love you ! I love you !” he repeated, 
with passionate iteration. “ Anna, I say again — be kind 
to me !” 

The girl sprang up from her seat with as vehement a 
movement of angry recoil as if some noisome creature 
had touched her. She rubbed her handkerchief with 
almost savage energy on the spot his lips had pressed, 
and looked at him with her eyes dilating and her deli- 
cate nostrils quivering under her sense of outrage. 

“ How dare you insult me like that? Have I ever 
wanted your love, or tried to please you as other girls 
do? Has there ever been a look, or word, or touch of 
mine that could encourage you to expect anything from 
me? You know there has not — that if behavior could 
kill love, yours by this time should have no life in it ! 
It is what I have tried for — to appear so hateful that you 
should cease to care for me !” 

The passion of her repudiation stung his manhood to 
a measure of self-assertion. 

“ And why have you done this?” he asked, straighten- 
ing his figure and meeting her flashing eyes without 
wavering. “ Why has my love no value to you? What 
right have you, above other women, to reject it with 
anger and scorn? What I offer you is the best a man 
has to give.” 

“ That does not matter, when the gift is unacceptable ! 

I do not mean to hurt or insult you more than another. 

-I hold every man’s love cheap, simply because I do not 
want it.” 

She paused a minute, as if searching for reasons, then . 
added quickly : 

“ Besides, I am quite sure you would never persuade 
your family and friends to give me a welcome.” 

A sudden flicker of hope sprang up in his heart, and 
his face brightened. 

“ I have my father’s full permission to win you, if I 
can.” 

“ It is very good of Sir Walter Earle to give you leave,” 
she answered, scornfully ; “ but I shall not put his mag- 
nanimity to the test, and you must quite clearly under- 
stand that I mean every word I have just now spoken, 
and that this subject must never be mentioned between 


132 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


US again. Shall I tell you what you had better do? 
Make up your quarrel with Honor Aylmer; no other 
woman will ever suit you half so well.” 

“ Ah,” he answered; “ that comes either of your igno- 
rance of what love is, or of the insolence of your youth 
and beauty. Honor Aylmer is a better woman than you, 
and almost as handsome ; but it is you — you only — that 
I want, Anna” — he came a little nearer to her, moved by 
the instinct of appeal — “ there is nothing your heart can 
desire that it will not be in my power to give you. You 
shall order our lives as you like — on any lines, in any 
lands — only I must have your love !” 

“ Have you, then, some love-philter at command?” was 
her answer. “ You bribe high, Mr. Earle; but you may 
have read as well as I that love is not to be bought, nor 
will it come at word of command. What am I to say to 
you? If you could give me all the kingdoms of the 
earth, as well as Earlescourt, I would not marry you !” 

His face flushed with pain and anger. “ It will not be 
necessary to say much more ; there is a limit even to my 
subserviency ; you leave me no loophole for self-decep- 
tion. I will give it up, Anna, but — you shall tell me for 
whom !” 

The color faded out of his face, and a light came into 
his eyes which she had never seen there before, and 
which fascinated her gaze — his voice even had taken a 
tone of harshness quite foreign to its habitual sweetness. 
“For whose sake,” he added incisively, “do you treat 
me with this insufferable arrogance? Is it for Philip 
Methuen’s?” 

He caught her hand as he spoke, not from any motive 
of endearment, but as if to make sure that she should 
stand and abide his question ; and he searched her face 
with a hard scrutiny which it was difficult for even her 
to encounter without flinching. 

A flame of color suddenly dyed the pure pallor of her 
skin, but the very consciousness of her involuntary 
weakness was a challenge to her courage. She met 
Adrian’s peremptory, relentless gaze with a superb 
movement of defiance. • 

“ Yes,” she answered, giving to each word she spoke a 
metallic clearness of utterance ; “ you have guessed right, 
though you had no right to guess — it is for Philip Methu- 
en’s sake.” 

An indefinable expression came over Adrian’s face; 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN^ 


133 


he dropped her hand and turned a little aside. Love 
and hate, pity and revenge — passions hitherto unknown 
to his experience — divided his heart between them. No 
sweet reasonableness governed his love for Anna Trevel- 
yan: he loved her because her beauty, audacity, and 
brilliant gifts stirred the languid pulses of his soul ; and 
such love is not scrupulous as to the means of satisfac- 
tion. 

Why should he not help himself in his defeat to the 
weapons Methuen had inadvertently put into his hands.^ 
Why.^ Because the bias of character, and the instincts 
of a gentleman do not yield to the first assaults of temp- 
tation, even of a temptation so potent as his. 

“ It was a question I had no right to ask,” he said, after 
a pause ; “ but your answer is conclusive. I have done, 
Anna.” 

She felt for him more under this new aspect of re- 
straint and forbearance — felt, by instinct, that a deeper 
depth had been stirred than she had suspected. She 
went up to him and touched his arm with her hand. 

“ Do not hate me for what I have said ! I should not 
like to think of you in the future as unhappy, when 
things will be so different with me. But — you don’t 
take things very much to heart.” 

He smiled a little, and put her hand gently to his lips. 

“ I have done with protestations, Anna. But a time 
may come in your life when you may stand in need of 
comfort — if it should, send for me ! I shall always love 
you as I love you now.” 

He opened the door noiselessly after his fashion, and 
went out. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“ Rarely, rarely comest thou 
Spirit of delight; 
wherefore hast thou left me now 
Many a day and night? ” 

—Shelley. 

“ The persons whose tempers are most distinguished for bigotry are 
those which have drunk most sparingly, if at all, of the water of life.” 

On the afternoon of the following day, Anna Trevel- 
yan stepped out on the platform of Trichester station 
and looked eagerl}^ about her. The scene had become 


134 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


very familiar to her : it was now nearly four years since 
she had seen it first, and she had outgrown or overcome 
much of the childish misery of those days. Life lay be- 
fore her, touched with a radiance almost as warm and as 
penetrating as the midsummer sun over her head. Only 
at this precise moment a shade was certainly thrown 
across her path, and was reflected in the angry gloom of 
her face. 

The station-master, who was well acquainted with 
her, and with her intimacy with the Earlescourt family, 
came forward civilly to speak to her. 

“ Miss Sylvestre is waiting outside in the pony-car- 
riage, Miss Trevelyan ; there is a cart for your luggage.” 

“ Is there no one else?” asked Anna. “ I will wait a 
few minutes.” 

The man hesitated. “ Shall I speak to Miss Sylvestre?” 
he asked. “ It is Miss Dorothy Sylvestre.” 

A frown of impatience contracted the girl’s forehead; 
she was suffering from intense mental strain. 

“ I will speak to her myself, ’’she answered; and going 
outside the station, where Dorothy sat patiently waiting 
in the little, low-backed basket-carriage, which alw^ays 
moved Anna’s contempt, she stooped over her and kissed 
her quickly, as if anxious to meet, almost to anticipate, 
her greetings. “ I am glad it is you, Dolly, but I am not 
quite ready. Will you mind waiting a few minutes?” 

“I don’t mind waiting a bit; only mamma said we 
were to make haste home, so as not to keep them wait- 
ing for tea.” Then her innocent blue eyes wandered 
admiringly over her cousin’s person. “ How beautiful 
you look, Anna, and what a lovely gown! Wasn’t it a 
pity to travel in it?” 

Anna’s clouded eyes were traversing the high-road 
which led in the direction of Skeffington, so far as they 
were able to follow it, but neither pedestrian nor vehicle 
was in sight. The passengers by the late train were 
rapidly dispersing, the driver of the railway omnibus 
being the last to move off, putting his whip to his hat as 
he passed the Skefhngton ladies. 

The little lad who had driven the light cart which ful- 
filled so many functions in the modest Sylvestre house- 
hold had helped the porter to deposit Anna’s boxes and 
wraps' in it, and now stood waiting for the word of com- 
mand. Anna gave it at last with the haughty, unsym- 
pathetic air which was characteristic of her, and after a 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


135 


further interval of moody watchfulness, at last took her 
place beside Dorothy. 

“ Put the thing in motion !” she said. “We shall scarcely 
get home before dark.” 

Dolly obeyed, with a half-shy glance at her cousin. 

“ Are you vexed about coming home?” she asked. “ I 
am afraid mamma is not pleased. Do you mind telling 
me why you did not stay longer?” 

“ Because I discovered it was time to come home, if I 
did not mean to wear out my welcome. By the way — 
wonders will never cease ! — I see the pony has got a new 
collar.” 

“Yes,” cried Dorothy, brightening, “I was sure you 
would notice it. Doesn’t he look nice?’' 

“ One degree less abject than usual,” said Anna, un- 
graciously. “ Do you know, Dolly, I would positively 
prefer to walk the eight miles’ distance than drive in such 
a miserable little rattle-trap as this ! I feel the same 
contempt for myself as every one else feels who looks at 
us. It is as incongruous as it would be to see a beggar 
or a pauper lolling in one of the Earles’ fine carriages.” 

“ It is an incongruity you will have to put up with, or 
else return to the friends you have left,” returned her 
cousin with some spirit ; but at the same moment Anna 
suddenly snatched the reins from her hands. 

“Not that way,” she said harshly; “we will drive 
through the park.” 

“ If we do,” replied Dolly — knowing from previous ex- 
perience that opposition would be useless — “ it will be 
only fair for you to take the blame on yourself. Mamma 
is sure to question us, and it will be a bad beginning for 
your return home.” 

“ I can bear it,” said Anna; but even as she spoke her 
voice fell a little, and the tears of her bitter disappoint- 
ment gathered in her eyes. No further appeal was 
wanted. 

“ Keep the reins,” said Dolly, softly, “ while I open the 
gate.” 

Anna accepted the arrangement as a matter of course. 

“ Drive slowly,” she said, as Dolly resumed her place 
beside her, “ and stop a minute when we are in sight of 
the house. We shall be at the vicarage only too soon.” 

“ Papa says the gardens never used to be kept in such 
exquisite order,” remarked Dolly, flicking off the flies 
from her pony’s neck as he stood panting at his ease on 


136 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


the crest of the little hill which commanded a view of 
Methuen Place ; “ but to me it never looks a bit changed. 
When Mr. Methuen came home a week or two ago from 
India, after three years’ absence, I wonder if he saw any 
difference?” 

“ Have you seen him?” asked Anna, sharply, searching 
the front of the house and the terrace on which the 
rooms opened with a scrutiny from which not even a 
sparrow would have been able to escape. 

“No one has seen him, I believe, but Mr. Oliver. 
Poor Sir Giles is dangerously ill, and worse since Mr. 
Methuen came home. Doesn’t it seem a pity! They 
say he never leaves his uncle.” 

Anna turned very pale. “ Dangerously ill ! Do you 
mean he will not get any better? I notice the fountain 
is not playing.” 

“ It is too near Sir Giles’ window, and he cannot bear 
the sound of the water,” explained Dolly. “Dr. Far- 
quhar told mamma.” 

“ Drive on, Dolly, and make haste home ; there is 
nothing to wait for.” 

The village and vicarage-house of Skeffington look as 
little changed for the four years during which Anna had 
known it as the old gray mansion-house of the Methu- 
ens. The ivy had climbed a little higher up the square 
church tower, and the myrtle-tree which covered the 
side-walls of the parsonage had increased the bulk of its 
stem and taken a deeper tone upon its lustrous twigs. 
The gnarled branches of the old apple-trees in the or- 
chard had given themselves another twist, and the moss 
and lichen were thicker upon them ; but the garden it- 
self, with its small circular grass-plat and trim borders, 
was as stiff and unattractive as ever. The blossoming 
shrubs in which Anna delighted, and which relieved it 
from absolute ugliness, had flowered and faded away 
early in the forward spring, and had nothing now to show 
her but their dull foliage; and Mrs. Sylvestre’s gaunt 
geraniums and ill-grown fuchsias still stood in their ugly 
wire receptacles under the porch, precisely as they had 
done on the night when Philip Methuen made his first 
appeal on behalf of her niece. 

As Anna got out of the pony-carriage and went into 
the house, she had an impatient, weary impression of 
the unchanged conditions of her life, and of the time 
having arrived when they were becoming unbearable. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 137 

Mrs. Sylvestre rose from her seat and took a few steps 
to meet her across the floor of her drawing-room, meagre 
and colorless as ever. It seemed to the girl that no 
change whatever had passed over the pale, keen face, 
with its prominent blue eyes, thin lips, and high narrow 
forehead, over which the skin seemed too tightly drawn 
to admit of lines or wrinkles, since the miserable day 
when she had first seen it. Also, oddly enough, her first 
words were almost identical with those she had spoken 
on that occasion. 

“ Make haste and take off your things, Anna ; your 
uncle is come in, and tea has been waiting for some 
time.” 

Anna paused, then asked, in a clear, firm voice : 

“ Are there any letters for me.-*” and met Mrs. Syl- 
vestre’s cold gaze of surprise with the defiant composure 
which that lady was wont to characterize as effrontery, 

“ As there is only one family with whom you corre- 
spond, and you have just left their roof, for reasons still 
to be explained, I am at a loss to understand from whom 
you could expect a letter.” 

“ Does that mean there are no letters for me?” repeated 
Anna. 

“ There are no letters for you,” replied her aunt, 
sternly, and surveying her with growing dissatisfaction, 
not only because her inquiry was a suspicious one, and 
would need to be investigated, but also because she 
could not blind herself to the fact that not a month 
passed over the girl’s head without adding something 
to the perfection of a beauty she could neither deny nor 
forgive. 

Anna went slowly upstairs and sat down in the win- 
dow-seat of her bedroom, as she had done on the first day 
of her arrival ; and if she did not bow her head on her 
hands and weep, it was only because she had gained a 
little since then in self-control. She was quite miser- 
able enough. 

Dolly had already put away her hat and jacket, and 
was smoothing her fair hair before the glass. How 
meagre and despicable looked all the appointments of 
the room, in Anna’s angry sight ! 

“ Anna, dear,” said her cousin, timidly, “ won’t you 
get ready for tea?” 

Anna dashed off her hat, and unwound from her stately 
throat the magnificent scarf of black Spanish lace, which 


138 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


made the only difference between her indoor and out- 
door toilet: it was one of Honor’s frequent and little- 
considered gifts. Then she suddenly clasped her hands 
before her eyes as if to shut out the sight of external 
things. 

“ I don’t think I can bear it!” she cried, in a low, in- 
ward voice, charged with the passionate irritability from 
which she was suffering. 

Even the gentle spirit of Doll}^ rebelled a little. 

“ Bear what?” she asked. What I and Lucy and Mary 
bear all the year round? What did you expect to find 
when you came home? You know how things always 
go on. I can’t understand why you didn’t stay longer 
with the Earles — it is so odd to leave London in June !” 

The words recalled Anna to a sense of discretion : if 
she were to carry out the vague purpose she had in view, 
she must be careful to keep her own counsel. 

It was by no means impossible for her to play a part 
when she recognized the necessity of doing so, and for 
the rest of the evening she did her best to behave in 
such a way as should serve to disarm her aunt’s already 
excited suspicions and win her young cousin’s good-will. 
She lavished upon the latter trinkets and dainty acces- 
sories of dress which had cost her nothing, and to which 
she was constitutionally indifferent: endured Mrs. Syl- 
vestre’s cross-examination respecting the London menage 
of the Earlescourt family, and her uncle’s prosy inqui- 
ries as to the business of the “ House,” on which subject 
he seemed to expect Anna’s information to be authorita- 
tive, on the strength of her occasional presence in the 
Ladies’ Gallery. 

It is almost unnecessary to say that the scheme which 
this ardent and self-willed girl was planning was the 
gaining of an interview with Philip Methuen ; but the 
difficulties which beset it baffled her ingenuity. 

It happened that at this time Dr. F'arquhar, the chief 
medical practitioner of Trichester, and Sir Giles’ daily 
attendant, was also visiting her youngest cousin, Mary, 
for some temporary ailment; and as Mrs. Sylvestre’s re- 
pugnance to the faith of the master of Methuen Place 
did not go far enough to destroy her interest in his con- 
dition and affairs, Anna had the limited satisfaction of 
hearing something that helped to guide her conclusions. 

Dr. Farquhar was a short, stout, red-faced man, whose 
general appearance suggested tlie idea of a well-to-do 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 139 

country farmer rather than of a professional man of some 
considerable distinction ; but no acute observer who had 
read the signs of the close, well-cut mouth, of the gray 
eyes deep set in their sockets, and keen and clear with the 
vigilance of an intelligence which never seemed to 
slumber or sleep, and of the huge forehead with its equal 
development of the reflective and perceptive faculties 
(to borrow the helpful phrases of an obsolete science), 
would have agreed with the popular judgment. It may 
also have been strengthened by the fact that Dr. Far- 
quhar’s manners were a little harsh and abrupt, lacking 
entirely the deliberate courtesy and bland solicitude 
which are so influential an element of success with the 
average patient. His relations with the Sylvestre house- 
hold were by no means intimate, and he was very chary 
of communicating any information respecting his profes- 
sional experiences. He, however, allowed that the con- 
dition of Sir Giles Methuen, he being the great man of 
the neighborhood, might excite a little legitimate cu- 
riosity. 

In this way Mrs. Sylvestre learned that the old baronet 
was supposed to be gradually sinking, and that his 
nephew was in constant attendance upon him ; and these 
facts, when they reached Anna’s ears, seemed to close 
the door of hope against her. Even she could not enter- 
tain the idea of forcing her way into Methuen Place 
under such circumstances. Also, she was keenly aware 
of the necessity of concealing the depth of interest she 
took in the matter ; she seldom saw Dr. Farquhar her- 
self, and if she had seen him, she dared not betray her- 
self by. direct inquiry. And so the weary, fruitless 
weeks passed on. 

To add to her anxiety, the Earle family returned in 
due course to Earlescourt — or at least Miss Earle and 
Honor returned. Sir Walter had gone direct to his 
Scotch shooting-box as soon as Parliament rose; and 
Adrian, it was said, had accompanied him — at any rate, 
he was not at Earlescourt. Anna was in constant ap- 
prehension of Mrs. Sylvestre becoming aware of her 
changed relations with her former friends, for she knew 
by instinct the facts would excite her violent displeasure 
and disappointment; and this anxiety led to rather more 
propriety of behavior toward her aunt, which was not 
without its effect on the general tranquillity. 

The year had now worn on to the middle of August, 


140 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


nearly two months since Philip Methuen had returned 
from India, and still they had never met. Anna would 
have thought such a thing impossible at the time when 
she first returned to Skeffington, but fate, she said to 
herself, was against her. The long strain, however, 
was telling, if not upon her health, which was of too 
vigorous a type to yield readily under mental pressure, 
upon her looks , and she was conscious that her cheek 
was thinner and paler, and her eyes had lost something 
of their brightness. 

It happened that Dr. Farquhar made the same obser- 
vation on one of the rare occasions when Anna was in 
the room during his professional call. He was taking 
leave of his little patient, more in the character of friend 
than physician, and consequently Mrs. Sylvestre had not 
thought it necessary to dismiss her niece as usual. 

“ I hope you won’t accuse me of wanting to fill Miss 
Mary’s vacant place, Mrs. Slyvestre, if I venture to re- 
mark that this young lady is not looking well,” he said, 
with a pleasant smile, glancing toward Anna, who was 
standing languidly leaning against the open window. 

Mrs. Sylvestre turned sharply round and looked at her. 

“ My niece enjoys excellent health. Dr. Farquhar. She 
is in the habit of boasting she never had a headache in 
her life ! There is nothing the matter with you, Anna, 
I believe?” 

The tone was so hard and confident that it would have 
needed some courage to contradict her belief, and 
Anna’s energies were at a low ebb. Also, she hated the 
idea of being considered sick or ill. 

Nothing,” she replied, “except the heat;” a^id then 
she added, with sudden resolution : 

“ Poor old Sir Giles Methuen must find this weather 
hard to bear.” 

For once, Mrs. Sylvestre was willing to follow her 
niece’s lead; she thought it was Anna’s way of turning 
the doctor’s attention from herself, and was prepared to 
commend her discretion. 

“ An old man’s blood runs colder in his veins than 
yours, my dear young lady; I don’t think Sir Giles 
Methuen suffers much from the heat.” 

“ Is that unfortunate young man still in attendance 
upon him.^” asked Mrs. Sylvestre, in the harsh, grating 
tone which she instinctively adopted when touching 
upon the Methuen theme. “ Why does not his uncle 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 141 

provide himself with a professional nurse — is it selfish- 
ness or economy?" 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Sylvestre, I don’t quite catch your 
meaning. In what way is Mr. Methuen, with his splen- 
did prospects and — such as he is — to be considered un- 
fortunate?" 

“ I allude to the lamentable circumstances of his edu- 
cation. Perhaps you may not be aware — it does not, of 
course, fall within your function — that he is more, far 
more, deeply dyed in superstition than the old baronet 
himself? The gifts of fortune or of nature, you will 
allow. Dr. Farquhar, will scarcely compensate for this." 

“ I have no opinion on such points ; they do not, as you 
say, come within my function ; but if it is the province 
of superstition to turn out such men as Philip Methuen, 
my experience inclines me to the wish that it were a lit- 
tle more generally infiuential." 

“ I am astonished, doctor, to hear you express yourself 
so lightly ! I do not deny that there are points of at- 
traction in Sir Giles Methuen’s nephew; but if such is 
the case under the influence of a demoralizing and soul- 
crushing religion, what might not such a young man 
have become if he had enjoyed the privilege of being 
brought up in the true faith?” 

“ That is a question neither of us can answer, Mrs. Syl- 
vestre,’’ said the doctor, smiling a little impatiently. 
“ But you seemed anxious on the score of his comfort. 
I assure you he is in excellent health and condition — 
takes sufficient exercise, sees his friends at Earleswood 
occasionally, and duly goes to church." 

“ To church — to mass, do you mean? But I understood 
he never left his uncle’s room." 

“ Then, my dear madame, you must have understood 
that we had all taken leave of our senses. Sir Giles, I 
cannot help telling you, behaves more like a saint than 
a sinner, and would be the last to exact injurious devo- 
tion from his heir; on the contrary, their mutual consid- 
eration and affection, perfectly simple and unostenta- 
tious, is a lesson to all of us. As for the professional 
nurse you appear to consider necessary, the poor old 
baronet is so reduced, a child almost might lift him ; and 
I assure you neither his servant, housekeeper, nor Mr. 
Methuen himself, would allow any stranger to touch him. 
Pray set your mind at ease; the sick-room is quite 
sufficiently manned." 

10 


142 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Mrs. Sylvestre was silent for a moment, and she did 
not observe that Dr. Farquhar’s eyes were closely ob- 
serving Anna’s downcast face and the nervous move- 
ment of her fingers, which she was clasping and unclasp- 
ing in suppressed excitement. 

“ Were you aware,” she resumed, with some hesitation, 
that the vicar called a little while ago at Methuen 
Place, and was denied admission to the sick-room?” 

“ You must blame me for that! Nurses are bound to 
obey orders, and mine are decisive against visitors. But 
I believe your husband had no reason to complain of 
his reception — he saw Mr. Methuen and took no offence.” 

Mrs. Sylvestre shook her head. 

“ Extreme forbearance is my husband’s weak point. 
But the responsibility of cutting off that old man from 
perhaps his last chance of spiritual enlightenment was 
too serious to be incurred for the sake of any mere phys- 
ical advantage.” 

She made another little pause ; but Dr. Farquhar had 
no mind to take up the challenge. Anna, who was 
tongue-tied for fear of self-betrayal, felt an emotion of 
positive gratitude toward her aunt when she asked pres- 
ently, as if still brooding over the melancholy condition 
of her neighbors : 

“You said the young man went to church. Do you 
mean, to that deplorable little barn at Crawford — in 
Carshalton Street, I think — which is dignified by its wor- 
shippers with the name of a chapel?” 

“ The same ; though if you were acquainted with the 
inside as well as the out, you might correct your esti- 
mate. You will be pleased to hear he takes his consti- 
tutional every morning, rain or shine, to some early cel- 
ebration, which is held before our good vicar is up — sit- 
ting up at nights seems to make no difference. Some- 
how, Mrs. Sylvestre, that quiet, unobtrusive sort of ob- 
servance counts.” 

“ Yes, as the mechanical prayers of the Mohammedan 
count, and the devotional katoo of the Chinaman grovel- 
ling before his god — not otherwise. I must own it vexes 
me a little. Dr. Farquhar, that my niece should have 
listened to your commendation of Roman Catholics ; it 
has been our object ever since she was under this roof 
to weaken the pernicious influences of her youth.” 

“ I don’t think I have done her much harm, or that 
there is much the matter with her, after all,” was the 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


143 


doctor’s answer, as he shot his keen glance again in her 
direction. 

Her figure had lost its languid droop, her whole aspect 
had undergone a change. An eager vitality now lighted 
up the face which had been so pale and spiritless a few 
moments before. When she shook hands with him, the 
firm, flexible fingers closed over his with an unmistak- 
able grasp of good-will, and the intense, indefinable look 
in her beautiful eyes almost sent a thrill into the celi- 
bate doctor’s case-hardened heart. 

“ There is something in it,” he said to himself, as he 
climbed carefully into his saddle — the well-groomed and 
well-trained cob having stood during his visit patiently 
tethered to the vicarage garden-gate — “ how much, I do 
not precisely see ; but there is another point I do see 
with remarkable precision — that Anna Trevelyan is — 
well — let us say, such a young woman as one does not 
meet every day in one’s life.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 

All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 

Let my voice be heard, that asketh not for fame and not for glory, 
Give for all our life’s dear story, 

Give us Love, and give us Peace !” 

—Jean Ingelow. 

“ Dolly,” said Anna, as the two girls entered their 
bedroom together soon after the ten-o’clock reading of 
family prayers, and general dismissal of the household 
to bed, “ come ^nd sit down by me ; I have something 
to tell you. You are not sleepy, I hope.^” 

Dolly was sleepy : she had been trained to go to bed 
at a certain hour, and Nature of course accommodated 
herself to the discipline ; also days of uneventful incident 
and dull routine are perhaps more exhausting than is 
generally supposed. There is no weariness so intense 
as that which comes of monotony. 

“ Something to tell me?” she answered, with a little 
quickening of interest. “ Is it about Adrian Earle?” 

Anna made a gesture of repudiation ; her movements 
were always wonderfully expressive. The slight flush 
that came into her face was not likely to be detected by 


144 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


the light of the solitary candle, which was considered 
quite sufficient for bedroom illumination by Mrs. Syh 
vestre’s economy. 

“ Put out the candle, Dolly,” interposed Anna, with a 
fine accent of contempt (she always expressed herself as 
if her early experiences had been on a scale of wealth and 
splendor); “the moon is almost full,” drawing up the 
blind as she spoke, and throwing open the window; 
“ who could want to go to bed on such a night as this?” 

She leaned out of the window as far as safety would ad- 
mit, into the pure illumined air, and drew a deep breath 
of irrepressible desire. Her whole being responded to 
the influences of the night : the moon was so bright that 
she could distinguish the gleam of the distant sea at the 
point she knew well where to look for it ; the low range 
of hills, with their twin master-peaks, showed blackly 
against the heavenly background; and the shadows of 
the trees and fore-front of the house lay motionless on 
the grass. Now and again there was a faint stir in the 
branches, as some drowsy bird swerved or shifted its 
position, and through the serene hush of the night came 
the distant hooting of owls — a weird, mysterious sound 
which seemed to give the finishing-touch to her mood of 
emotional excitement. 

“ Mother of God,” she murmured to herself (it was an 
echo of her childhood, and her nearest approach to devo- 
tion), “ give me what I want ! I want so to be happy !’’ 

The moment after she mocked herself with remorse- 
less contempt. If she did want to be happy, it was only 
her own skill and daring which would get the victory 
for her, and the first step in that direction she was now 
fully prepared to take. 

“ Did you ever walk to CrawTord, Dolly?” she asked, 
retreating from the window with the sudden apprehen- 
sion that their voices might be overheard. 

“ Never! It is a good five miles.” 

“ And how long would that take to walk?” 

“ I can’t say exactly. What have you got in your 
head, Anna? If you want to go to Crawford, I daresay 
we can have the pony-carriage to-morrow.” 

“ I want to attend Mass at the Catholic chapel to-mor- 
row morning, at the early celebration. When I say I 
want, my meaning is that I am resolved to go.” 

Dolly, who was in the act of loosening the shining 
plaits of her golden hair, suffered her arms to drop sud- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


145 


denly to her side; she turned upon her cousin open- 
mouthed with surprise. 

“You! Why, I have heard you make fun of the ser- 
vice scores of times ! Why do you want to go? Mamma 
would never forgive you, Anna.” 

“ But I shall manage in such a way that she will never 
know. I want you to help me, Dolly. You must go 
with me — we can easily get out of the drawing-room 
window. 

“ But we cannot easily fasten it again! The servant 
will tell. It is out of the question, Anna. I should be 
frightened to death. Besides, it is too far to walk ; we 
should have to get up before it was light. It would be 
quite a disgraceful thing to do, and — what for?” 

Anna hesitated a moment; then slowly raising her 
arms above her head, and suffering them to fall to her 
sides again with a singular but expressive movement 
habitual to her moods of excitement, she answered 
clearly : 

“ I want to speak to Philip Methuen.” 

“ Oh!” was Dolly’s response, in an accent of unmistak- 
able reprobation. “ I could not do that ; it would be 
dreadfully improper! Besides, Anna, we should be 
sure to be found out — some one would see us and tell, 
and I don’t know how mamma would punish us. We 
should be going against her on so many points, we 
should deserve ” 

She stopped short; Anna’s look of passionate scorn 
almost frightened her. 

“ Do not speak another word, Dolly ; you are a miser- 
able little fool ! I shall go all the same, only I shall go 
alone. No, I don’t want to hear the sound of your voice 
again.” 

“ I would do it if I could,” said Dolly, helplessly; but 
Anna vouchsafed no answer. 

It was a long time before Dolly sobbed herself to sleep 
that night. She tried to renew her remonstrances, but her 
cousin silenced her with almost brutal contempt. Anna 
herself lay open-eyed through all the long hours of the 
night, never for a moment swerving from her purpose. 

At one time the idea occurred to her that she would so 
far alter her programme as to lie in wait for Philip 
nearer his own house — it would save time and fatigue ; 
but the fear of missing him led her to return to her orig- 
inal plan. 


146 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


If she arrived first at the chapel, she could not possi- 
bly fail in her object. 

At five o’clock in the morning she got up and looked 
at the weather. The sun was barely risen, and the 
heavens were overcast with clouds. Already a few 
hops of rain had fallen. The outside world looked in- 
lescribably chill and depressing: the charm, the allure- 
nent of last night were as extinct as if they had never 
existed. Dolly was asleep, but turning restlessly on her 
pillow. For a moment Anna’s resolution faltered. 
Then she renewed it with tenfold stringency. Was it 
not from such a life as now shut her in that she was go- 
ing to escape? 

She made a careful and judicious toilet. There was a 
chilliness in the air that induced her to put on the fault- 
less dark-gray ulster which Miss Earle had given her as 
a parting gift, and which, as revealing the grace and ad- 
mirable symmetry of her person, was the most becoming 
garment she could have worn. She had a dainty close- 
fitting hat which matched it, accommodating itself to 
the massive coils of her hair, to the delicate, finely-cut 
face, and the magnificent dark eyes, as the last harmo- 
nious touch of a perfect picture. It vexed her sense of 
congruity that she felt constrained to carry an umbrella ; 
but although the rain was not at that moment falling, 
the skies threatened a downfall. 

Just as she was ready to leave the room Dolly opened 
her eyes. She glanced with a momentary bewilderment 
at her cousin, and then the remembrance of last night 
rushed back on her mind. In a moment .she had sprung 
out of bed and seized Anna’s hand. 

“ Oh, Anna, do not go ! I beseech you, do not go !” 

Anna’s only answer was a contemptuous gesture of re- 
pulsion. 

‘‘ Then wait a few minutes,” said Dolly, pushing back 
the cloud of fair hair from her face, and looking up at 
her cousin with a sort of martyr resolution, “ wait, and 
I will go with you !” 

“ You will not go with me, for there is no time to wait ; 
besides, you could not walk so fast as I. I will go alone. 
You can please yourself about betra^dng me.” 

She turned and went out of the room. 

There was no difficulty about getting out of the house. 
Anna walked straight into the drawing-room, guiding 
her way carefully so as to make no noise in the imper- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 147 

feet light, opened the shutter of the window against 
which she had been leaning during Dr. Farquhar’s yes- 
terday’s visit — it seemed longer ago than that — and let 
herself out into the garden. 

The garden-gate was never locked. There was a bolt 
easy enough to withdraw, and in a few minutes more 
Anna was walking swiftly on the high-road to Crawford. 

Her first sensation, in spite of her high spirit, was one 
of extreme nervousness. Since she had been grown up 
— rather since she had been in England — she had never 
been out of doors so early before. There was something 
foreign and unaccustomed in the aspect of things — the 
world seemed still asleep. Her own footsteps were al- 
most the only sound she heard, except the flutter and 
twitter of the uprousing birds and the plaintive bleat of 
some sheep in the fields which she skirted. After a time 
she encountered farm-laborers at intervals, trudging 
heavily along the roads to their respective labor, with 
no more elasticity in their gait or vitality in their faces 
than when they had exchanged “ good-night” at sun- 
down yesterday, with any passing stranger. Sleep had 
revived their physical forces enough for the weary 
round of the day’s work, but allowed of no reserve of 
energy for any human function beyond mere physical 
sensation. Now and again some man, younger and 
more alert than his fellows, stared hard at Anna, with a 
confused sense of pleasure and then of surprise ; but be- 
yond standing still to look after her for a moment, he 
gave no sign and offered no interruption. 

It was otherwise, however, when she drew near the 
town. 

Crawford was the seat of a thriving local industry, and 
flocks of men and girls were wending their way to the 
different mills, not with the bovine docility of the agri- 
cultural laborer, but with coarse laughter, gross jest, 
and a good deal of indiscriminate horse-play. 

Some of the women intentionally jostled her in pass- 
ing — all had their keen criticisms to make on her dress 
and appearance; and the men, or boys rather, offered 
her compliments that brought the blood to her cheek. 
Anna had the spirit of a lioness, but not even a lioness 
fights against stupendous odds; and besides, it was a 
necessity to escape observation. She glided through 
the crowd as swiftly and silently as a shadow, with every 
pulse at fever-heat, and darting covert looks around. 


148 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Carslialton Street, in which the chapel stood, was one 
of the lowest thoroughfares in the town, and of the worst 
reputation, though naturally the girl was unacquainted 
with the fact. She saw, however, with her quick inclu- 
sive glance, that several spinning-ways opened direct 
upon the sidewalk, and that knots of frowsy, unkempt 
women, and rough, brutalized-looking men were stand- 
ing together in the way she must go before she could 
reach the little building at the extreme end of the 
street. 

Involuntarily she made a little pause to reconsider 
her position, and at the same moment she was aware of 
a swift, firm step behind her, a light touch upon her 
shoulder, and turning almost with the impetus of light, 
she found herself face to face with Philip Methuen. 

Thought and emotion have also the velocity of light, 
and the strongest currents of feeling may ebb and flow 
within limits inapproachable to time and space. It was 
perhaps scarcely within a moment’s interval that Philip 
Methuen and Anna Trevelyan, thus strangely met after 
more than three years’ separation, looked at each other 
in silence, but it was long enough for the one to imbibe 
a draught of sensation which permeated every nerve and 
fibre of her being with a rapture akin to intoxication ; 
and for the other to perceive that the girl he had left be- 
hind him was grown into the most perfectly beautiful 
woman he had ever seen. 

“Anna!” he exclaimed. “I need not ask if you are 
well; but what Is the meaning of this? So far from 
home — alone — and in such a part of the town as this ! 
It is well I am here to take care of you.” 

She laughed with pleasure, deliciously conscious of a 
new life in the light of his countenance, and still hold- 
ing the hand he had naturally extended in a grasp of 
the tenacity of which he was scarcely aware. 

“It is well!” she answered, in her own, melodious 
voice. “ Oh, Philip, how glad I am to see you ! and — 
how splendid you have grown !” 

He colored a little, but her delight and ardor were so 
spontaneous, he had not the heart to check her; his feel- 
ing was how much of the impulsive child she still re- 
tained. At the same time he was keenly aware of the 
observation they were attracting, and drawing her hand 
through his arm, led her gently along the street. 

Anna, on whom few external things were lost, ob- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


149 


served that the women drew back with a sudden air of 
decent reserve, and that some of the men touched their 
caps to him ; also that he seemed to recognize faces on 
all sides. He did not say much to her till they had 
entered the chapel enclosure. It still wanted a few 
minutes to the hour of service ; a few worshippers had 
already assembled — there were not likely to be many ; 
and the priest was at that moment crossing over from 
his house, which closely adjoined the chapel. He lived 
and labored zealously in the midst of his unsavory flock. 

Philip, who had placed Anna within the shelter of the 
porch, stepped across to speak to him. 

“ I have Father Price’s permission to make use of the 
vestry for a few minutes, while you explain how it is I 
have found you here,” he said to her when he came back. 

Please follow me.” 

She followed him, as a matter of necessity, into the 
small whitewashed chamber, which held nothing beyond 
a table and a chair, and an old oaken chest clamped with 
iron, which was the depository of the district registers. 
A dingy surplice hung from a nail in the wall, and a bot- 
tle of water and glass were set upon the table. The one 
redeeming point of beauty was an ivory crucifix of 
mediaeval workmanship, which was suspended above 
the chest. 

Philip placed the chair for her, and pouring some of 
the water into the glass, offered it to her to drink. 

You are right,” she said, accepting it eagerly, “ I am 
worn out with excitement and fatigue. I have walked 
all the way from Sheffington Vicarage.” 

'' So I judged; but why, Anna? I do not wish to hurry 
you, but I have not much time at my disposal. What 
has led you to do this thing?” 

‘‘ What? Cannot you suppose it is to worship as you 
worship? But no — I won’t deceive you — that was not 
my motive. On those subjects I feel just the same as 
ever — as my father taught me to feel. I came, because 
I could think of no other way of meeting you.” 

“ lam distressed,” he answered, “ that you should have 
been driven to such an expedient, and that circumstances 
have made it impossible for me to come and see you. 
But I relied upon Mrs. Sylvestre explaining her own ob- 
jections, and I looked forward from time to time to the 
chance of meeting you at Earlescourt. For the rest, you 
know pretty well how my time is spent just now.” 


ISO THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

What do you mean about Mrs. Sylvestre? Also — I 
have another wrong to put right — why did you not meet 
me at the station when I came home? I thought it would 
have been enough for me to express a wish.” 

“ It might have been enough,” he answered, with an 
indefinable reserve of manner which irritated her to the 
highest point, “ had my time been at my own disposal. 
I had occasion to see Mrs. Sylvestre the same morning I 
received your letter, and I begged her to explain how 
impossible it was for me to do as you wished. My uncle 
was at that time very ill indeed. Her answer was, that 
under no circumstances would she have sanctioned such 
an arrangement, and she made it a personal request that 
I should not visit you at the vicarage. Is it possible she 
did not explain this?” 

“ She explained nothing,” said Anna, in a low tone. 

Then it is very generous on your part to have forgiven 
what must have appeared to you such shameful neglect ; 
and I am deeply grateful, Anna, though I could wish 
you had proved it at less cost to yourself.” 

He spoke with more warmth, and his eyes rested upon 
her with a sort of tender admiration. 

“ How beautiful you have grown, little Anna!” and he 
lifted her hand to his lips; “and Honor and Oliver tell 
me how clever and accomplished as well! You have 
proved the truth of what we once talked about — the 
wheels run more smoothly, and you are willing to own 
now that life is worth living?” 

“ Yes,” she said, looking at him with eyes full of tears; 
“ I am willing to own it now.” 

Her heart was full to overflow. The tones of his voice, 
the remembered individualities of his manner, the phy- 
sical beauty which wrought at all times upon her sensuous 
temperament, swayed her with irresistible force. She 
could scarcely resist the impulse to cast herself upon his 
breast, or to sink at his feet sobbing out her passion and 
her joy; but time and training had done something for 
her in the way of self-discipline, and also she did not 
feel secure one moment against interruption. 

It was an unwelcome shock to her excited sensibility 
when he said more coolly: “ Will you sit and rest here 
for a few minutes while I go into the chapel? Then we 
will get a carriage of some kind from the ‘Bull’ to take 
you home.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 151 

But you mean to come with me?’' 

“ No, that is out of the question. Mrs. Sylvestre will 
regard your conduct, I hope, as a characteristic stroke of 
impulse ; or, if you think I can do any good, I will try, if 
possible, to call at the vicarage before the day is over ; 
there is a long day yet before us.” 

He smiled, seemed to take her angry silence for con- 
sent, and opening the door which led into the chapel, 
went out. 

Anna clasped her hands before her eyes. 

Was this casual meeting — these guarded, kindly words 
— this infinite gulf of distance — to be the only outcome 
of her perilous freak? 

Oh, but he was priest-trained, and under bondage still ; 
she would not risk her future by too great precipitation. 
One thing, however, would be necessary : to restore her 
relations with Earlescourt, so as to obtain the opportunity 
of occasional intercourse with him. She would throw 
herself upon Honor’s generosity, and ask if she was to 
be cut off from her love because she had not been able 
to love Adrian back again? 

Philip returned, after a short interval, accompanied, 
to her angry displeasure, by the old priest, who greeted 
Anna with almost paternal kindness, and began to talk 
to her about the village of Skeffington, and the changes 
she had known in his time. After a few more minutes, 
the messenger who had been sent for the carriage came 
in to announce its arrival at the door of the chapel, and 
bringing with him at the same time a cup and frothing 
jug of new milk. 

“ Come, Anna,” said Philip, as he filled the cup and 
offered it to her, “ this reminds me of the old days at 
Fiesole — you were never so content as when feeding me 
with goat’s milk.” 

“Let me feed you now!” she said eagerly. “I will 
not drink unless you share it with me.” 

It was perhaps as well that in the rush of memory his 
words excited, she had slipped back into the softness of 
the Tuscan tongue. She held out the cup her lips had 
tasted as she spoke ; but he put it down on the table be- 
side him without responding to her tender challenge, 
and with a deliberate avoidance of the glance which he 
knew was fastened upon his face. 

“ Let me put you in the carriage at once,” he said, 


152 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


with a smile which, in spite of its sweetness, had a sug- 
gestion of restraint in it ; “ it is quite time that both of 
us were at home.” 

“ Will you not drive back too?” she asked, as she took 
her place. 

“I am not ready. I prefer to walk. Addio, a river^ 
dercir 


CHAPTER XX. 


If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love’s sake only, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on through all eternity.” 

— E. B. Browning. 

“ Put out the lights and draw up the blinds, so that I 
can watch the dawn, and persuade myself the night is 
further spent than it is. I shall weary you all out! It 
frets me that I should make such a long business of 
dying.” 

“ And I have not courage enough to face the idea of 
the time when that business will be done !” 

Oh, that eases my mind! I have been thinking, as I 
lay awake, that no man could well be more solitary than 
you when I am dead. I don’t know of any man, woman, 
or child who can claim relationship with you. You 
must marry, Philip, and give me your promise that you 
will — it is in the bond.” 

The young man was silent, and it was too dark to see 
his face. 

“ It vexed me greatly,” pursued Sir Giles, “ that you 
made yourself the guest of the Abbe de Seve during that 
week in Paris. ‘ What better way could you have taken 
to put yourself in touch with the old denials? To my 
thinking, it was treating me unfairly. I repeat, you 
stand pledged to maintain the race: you are twenty- 
eight years old, nephew.” 

There was again a pause between them, and Philip 
perceived that Sir Giles had turned toward him as well 
as his weakness allowed, and was peering through the 
semi-darkness to see the effect of his words. He moved 
his chair close to the bedside, and took hold of the hand 
that was straying over the coverlet with the restlessness 
of pain and weakness. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


153 


“ I see that it will comfort you,” he said, with his habit- 
ual directness of speech, “ if I tell you that my reluc- 
tance to marry is a thing of the past— that is, if I am 
happy enough to persuade Honor Aylmer to be my wife.” 

“Honor Aylmer!” repeated the old baronet, with a 
gasp of emotion. “ Heaven is kinder to me than I de- 
serve ! You have lifted a load from my heart — Honor is 
not too good for ^^-ou.” 

“ My prayer is that she may be willing to think so.” 

“ You will go and ask her the question to-morrow — that 
is, to-day — Philip ! Tell her from me, a dying old man, 
that she must forego her privileges — that I must see 
your hands joined before I go. What should hinder it?” 

His excitement was raising dangerously high; the 
consolation he had never expected to receive seemed 
suddenly close within his touch, and he was eager to 
grasp it. 

“ Promise,” he cried sharply, “ that there shall be no 
delays or reserves on your part, and that you will do all 
a lover can to overrule hers.” 

“ I promise,” said Philip; and there was something in 
the inflection of his voice which satisfied his uncle. He 
fell back on his pillows with a sigh of relief. 

“ Send Duncan to take your place, and go to bed for 
an hour or two. Do not go to her heavy-eyed and pale. 
Yet — wait a minute!” 

It was characteristic, that his morbid sensibility was 
quickly reasserting itself, and checked the full tide of 
his comfort. 

“ It is human nature, but I should hardly have thought 
it was yours, Philip, to have fallen in love in such a time 
as this. Y ou have managed to indemnify yourself pretty 
well for the tedium of waiting on an old man’s death- 
bed. I do not complain, but the fact strikes me.” 

“ My love for Honor Aylmer is not the growth of the 
last month or two. I took it to India with me, and I 
still keep my secret. I don’t mean to deny that we have 
never met or parted lately without a deeper conviction 
on my part that my happiness lay in her hands — but this 
without any breach of loyalty to you.” 

“So be it,” said the old man, still with impatience; 
“ let it pass ! Anyway, now you have the satisfaction 
of knowing that your love and your loyalty run on the 
same lines. Don’t keep me in suspense an hour longer 
than necessary !” 


154 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


There are perhaps few things more difficult than for a 
man to make deliberately an avowal of love ; it seems to 
be of the essence of the passion that such disclosures 
should be accidental and spontaneous. Perhaps as Philip 
Methuen, later on the same morning rode slowly toward 
Earlescourt with this purpose in view, he felt such 
awkwardness less than most men would have done. The 
long training of his youth had tended to chasten, almost 
to eliminate, the impulsive propensities, and to reduce 
every action of his life to some recognized law of con- 
duct. 

It would indeed need to be some terrible crisis of ex- 
perience when either his words or actions escaped his 
own control, or hurried him into the vortex of self- 
abandonment; but it should be remembered that this 
mastery is never obtained by any man the bases of whose 
character are not deeply laid in strength of feeling as 
well as strength of will. Thus it followed that even his 
love for Honor should be modified by the potent influ- 
ences of his education, as well as by the bias of his nat- 
ure : whether right or wrong, he held the opinion that 
even in legitimate forms of self-gratification there is, 
not perhaps positive unworthiness, but a descent from 
the highest plane of human conduct. To live to himself 
was so far from being an allurement, that it almost needed 
an effort to accept this charmed life which seemed open- 
ing before him — not from coldness or lack of receptivity, 
but from the temper which instinctively disclaims the 
right to personal happiness. 

“ Soul, take thine ease !” he said to himself, half bit- 
terly, would be the burden of the message the future 
bore him, if Honor’s sweet e^^es answered the love in 
his; self-indulgence, self-delights, the highest sensual 
pleasures masking themselves as duties, instead of the re- 
lentless sacrifice of individual will and desire — the rigor 
of unshrinking subserviency — to other men’s needs. 

As he got off his horse and entered the house, he dis- 
tinguished the sound of Oliver’s piano under Honor’s 
crisp and delicate touch. He was sufficiently at home to 
find his way to the room without introduction. Oliver 
was lying on the couch under the window, which stood 
open to the warm perfumed air. A magnolia tree in blos- 
som pushed its lustrous leaves close against the glass. 

He looked flushed and worn, and the lines on his brow 
indicated not only some special pressure of pain and 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


155 


discomfort, but of intense impatience and resistance 
under it. 

“ Oh,” he cried, as Philip entered, “is it you.^ Leave 
off. Honor — Philip is better ! 1 begin to hate Chopin as 
he does. Presently he shall sing to me.” 

He made room for Methuen to sit beside him, and 
frowned and twisted with irritation when he saw him 
cross over to the piano to speak to Honor. 

“ Bear with him,” she said, in a low tone ; “ he has had 
one of his worst nights, and is worn out with pain. 
Your influence is greater than mine; how are we to give 
him strength to suffer?” 

Her' look and manner were that of one whose sympa- 
thy has been strained to the verge of endurance, and 
there was a pathetic droop in the lips, and a heaviness 
in the eyes she raised to his face, that suggested the idea 
to his mind that Oliver’s sleepless night had not been 
endured alone. Pity and tenderness, and the instinctive 
worship of his soul for such unconscious virtue as hers, 
quickened his love almost to the point of pain ; it took 
the color from his cheek and gave fire to his glance, but 
no more overt sign escaped him. 

“ I can stay with him for an hour,” he answered — and 
the sacrifice taxed him more heavily than he would have 
believed possible — “ if you will rest meanwhile, and give 
me the opportunity of speaking to you before I leave the 
house.” 

He dropped his eyes as he spoke ; he did not choose 
to read his sentence in advance. For a moment Honor’s 
heart stood still: the man who spoke to her was the 
ideal of all charm and excellence to her pure and exact- 
ing mind, and — there could not be much mistake as to 
what his words and manner meant. It meant, that she 
should spend the given hour of rest in questioning her 
own worthiness to receive the great gift of his love. 

When Methuen had closed the door after her, he turned 
back to Oliver, and was struck by the expression of his 
face — the suffering and bitterness were so intense. It 
had been in his mind to expostulate with him on his 
unmanly want of patience and consideration, but pity 
conquered every other feeling. “ I see,” he said, “ your 
pain is almost past bearing. What can I do? It seems 
a cruel mockery to say I wish I could bear it for you.” 

“ You !” cried Oliver, turning fiercely upon him — “ youj 
What do you know of aches and pains? I am insulted 


156 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


by your pity! It is an infamy that one human bein^ 
should be born into the world like you and another like 
me — a mark only for the contemptuous compassion one 
throws to a thrashed hound or overdriven horse ! What 
was hard enough to bear as a boy, I find out is unbear- 
able as a man. Do not stay here ; go where you wish to 
go — to Honor, who is waiting for you 1 Am I blind, do 
you think, as well as lame and crooked?” 

“ I grant,” said Philip quietly, sitting down beside him 
in spite of his resistance, “ that if you accept your hard 
fate in a spirit far meaner than that of a beaten hound, 
you lower yourself even beneath that level — you to 
whom some of the highest chances of humanity have 
been offered.” 

The boy uttered a disdainful snort. 

“ It is nothing but a truism to tell you that the perfect 
equilibrium of body and mind, the energy of the strong, 
the success of those called great, even the happiness of 
happy lovers, count for nothing in the divine estimate ; 
while one sigh of impatience checked, or sharp stroke of 
pain endured without betrayal, knits the soul to God.” 

Oliver glanced at him askance. 

“ I should hate you, Methuen, only — you believe what 
you say. The justice of God, then, puts martyrdom for 
my portion, and every good gift of body and mind, and all 
the human bliss that goes with them, for yours ; and I 
am to accept it as an equitable arrangement?” 

“ What true soldier resents the call to the front? It is 
he who is placed in the rear, among the reserves which 
may never be wanted, who may well doubt his courage 
and merit.” Philip stopped short suddenly ; his teaching 
seemed to have a sharp personal application. 

“ Pity you should not be able to change places with 
me !” said Oliver, in a tone of derision. “ If there is one 
thing to my mind more disgusting than another, it is to 
see the man who treads softly on rose-leaves indicating 
the red-hot ploughshares to the appointed victim, and 
bidding him take heart of grace. Martyrdom never 
commends itself to the martyr, depend upon it. I like 
the reverse!” 

He leaned forward and peered into the other’s face, 
which he had turned away. 

” Why don’t you tell me you would have preferred my 
lot in life to yours?” he asked, with a sneer. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


157 


“ Because I could not say it honestly ; the strength to 
submit and endure only comes with the necessity.” 

He got up and went to the piano. “ I will sing to you, 
if you like.” 

“ Ah, well, that will be a minor martyrdom,” said the 
boy spitefully. “ You shall sing till I am tired — only, 
if you have been sitting up all night, I am afraid you 
will not be in good voice, and I am critical, if nothing 
else.” 

Philip accepted the challenge — his blood was on fire. 
Every pulse seemed to rebel against this forced sus- 
pense and quiescence ; but was he to prove unequal to 
this trifling test with his own brave words in his ears? 

Oliver did his best to make the test well-nigh intolera- 
ble. He interrupted and contradicted him continually — 
asking for what he knew he did not sing, and finding 
fault with what he did, with a mixed perversity and 
acuteness difficult to bear; but Philip’s patience and 
coolness were invincible. 

Oliver was first tired out — or rather a spirit like his, 
v/hich hung upon musical expression as upon a golden 
chain, lifting him out of the abyss of physical sensation, 
could not resist the spell of the exquisite voice, touched 
to the finest faculty of interpretation. 

“Forgive me,” he said humbly, as Methuen for the 
third time reached the conclusion of a certain movement 
of Purcell’s, in which the boy had lost himself in rapt- 
ure, “ forgive me, and I will let you off ! Come here a 
minute !” 

Philip went close up to him, and saw that his eyes 
were full of tears. 

“ When you have taken Honor Aylmer away from me, 
Philip Methuen, what good shall my life do me? And 
yet I cannot hate you.” 

“ If,” was the answer, “ I am so happy as you seem to 
expect, I will never take her away from you; our home 
shall be yours. And now let me go and find her.” 

But as he went downstairs toward the garden, where 
he seemed to know by instinct she would be, Miss Earle 
interposed with friendly greetings and inquiries, and 
polite acknowledgments of his kindness to Oliver. 

“We miss Adrian so much,” she said. “ He was always 
good to his brother, and lightened Honor’s labors a little. 
You have not heard from him lately, I suppose.^” 
n 


158 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“No, I have not heard from him. I thought he was at 
Kenmure with Sir Walter.” 

“ Oh, no, he has never been with his father at all ; he 
has gone off on some raid of his own.” 

She looked at Philip curiously, wondering how much 
he knew of the situation, and if it was to his account 
that her nephew owed his recent disappointment, and 
the rest of the family their profound satisfaction. 

“ You are not going, I hope? Surely our forlorn condi- 
tion will move you to pity, and you will be persuaded to 
stay to luncheon. Sir Giles, I judge from your looks, is 
better this morning?” 

“ He is not better — it is a certain though slow decline — 
but he gave me leave of absence. No invalid could be 
less selfish.” 

“ Then you are not in a hurry, and I will put a shawl 
over my shoulders and show you my rose-garden. We 
have quite a second harvest.” 

Philip submitted with the grace of a courtier, and the 
practised patience which was seldom unequal to the 
demands made upon it ; but Miss Earle was disappointed 
in her companion. Her impression was “ that he knew 
something about roses,” as she expressed it, and recog- 
nized their importance in the scheme of the universe ; 
but after he had miscalled “ Marechal Valliant” for 
“ Xavier Olibo,” and failed to perceive that he had 
never beheld so perfect a specimen of “ Prince Camille 
de Rohan” before, her interest slackened, and she re- 
membered she had letters to write. 

“ I think you will find Honor in the nuttery,” she said. 
“ It is a favorite retreat of hers, and if you can spare the 
time, a chat with you will do her good. Tell her I de- 
pend upon seeing you at luncheon.” 

She nodded and turned away, and he was at last free 
to follow his bent. 

The nuttery was in a far-away corner of the grounds 
— a somewhat wild and neglected stretch of shrubbery 
with filbert-trees of so considerable an antiquity that 
they might well have been mistaken for trees of the for- 
est, and the more so that they had long ceased to bear 
fruit. It was a whim of Sir Walter Earle’s not to have 
them cut down. On the right hand the space was 
marked out by a wall covered with mosses and^lichens of 
exquisite gradations of golden color, and with tiny hart’s 
tongue ferns peeping out from every chink of vantage. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEJSf. 


159 


A straight grass-covered path, soft as velvet, and with 
its verdant pile almost as closely cut, led to a wide rus- 
tic bench covered with an awning, on which Philip could 
perceive that Honor was seated. Above shone the blue- 
gray August sky, palpitating with light and heat. 

Honor rose instinctively as Philip drew near. 

“Don’t let my coming disturb you,” he said. “Sit 
down again. Honor; with your leave I should like to 
talk to you here.” 

His eyes dwelt upon her with a tenderness not to be 
mistaken ; but for a few minutes he did not speak. 

“ You wore a white gown like this and a sash of the 
same color the first time I saw you — do you remember? 
Ever since I have judged all v/omen’s costumes by 
that.” 

“ I reinember perfectly. You read aloud that passage 
from Dante beginning 'Li ruscellettiy che de' verdi collV 
you condemned Chopin, criticised my painting, and took 
Oliver’s liking by storm.” 

“ Does your memory also recall that I stopped at that 
time a whole month at Earlescourt? That month was to 
me a new revelation. It was very soon after I left Paris, 
and was my first experience of family home-life. I had 
never lived under the same roof with any woman before 
(except my mother), and was quite ignorant of the dan- 
ger I ran. Honor, forgive me if I seem to speak too 
abruptly. I have no knowledge how other lovers plead ; 
but you set before me in your sweet unconscious daily 
life the qualities I had been taught to reverence and 
adore from a child, in such a fashion that I could not at 
first distinguish between my religion and my love.” 

He paused a moment, but she did not speak. Her in- 
ward answer was, “ What am I, to be held thus worthy?” 
He went on : 

“ When I discovered what had happened to me, it was 
to know that I was guilty, if not of a crime, at least of 
a shameful weakness. I went to India to try and forget 
the betrothed wife of Adrian Earle.” 

Then she looked up at him with a smile touching her 
lips, and all the light of a woman’s tenderness shining 
in her eyes. 

“You are not going to tell me that you succeeded?” 
she asked. 

“ I succeeded so far,” he answered, “ that even now at 
this moment, if he or any other man could make you 


i6o 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


happier than I, my acquiescence would be absolute. I 
have been content to forego you, Honor — what stronger 
proof of love can I give?” 

He had taken her hands in his. The inflections of his 
voice, to which she had been keenly susceptible from 
the first hour that they met, and the proud humility 
of his manner, so wrought upon her that it was difficult 
not to make her response too swift and eager. She 
turned away her face as she answered : 

“ I am afraid! Your notions are so high — you are so 
different from other men. You think me so much better 
than I am, and will be disappointed when you discover 
your mistake.” 

“ Ah, I need to retaliate all that ; but it is not to the 
point. I love you, Honor, once and forever. Come 
what may in life, no other love will touch me. Can you 
love me back? I will worship you next to God!” 

” Can 1 ?” she replied, involuntarily tightening her 
clasp upon the hands which held hers. “ I believe I have 
always loved you, Philip; just as Anna Trevelyan 
opened Adrianas eyes to the knowledge of his mistake, 
so, though I did not know it at the time, did you open 
mine. But, I repeat, I am afraid of my great happiness.” 

“Trust me,” he said; “I will not deceive you. Out- 
side my duty to God, I am yours body and soul, flesh and 
spirit, as long as I draw the breath of life or can discern 
the evil from the good.” 

He drew her into his arms, and their lips met, not 
with the intemperate heat of passion, which exhausts 
the honey of union as the bee the flower, but with the 
nobler reticence of the highest love, which by a divine 
paradox attracts while it withholds. 

Before Philip left Honor that morning (he did not ac- 
cept Miss Earle’s invitation to luncheon), he had won 
from her the promise that she would come and see Sir 
Giles Methuen on the next, knowing how it would cheer 
and gladden the sick man to see her and hear her him- 
self. He had as yet said nothing about his uncle’s anx- 
iety for an immediate marriage, for there seemed to 
him something almost sacrilegious in such haste. Per- 
haps he was scarcely anxious to forego the finer rapture 
and more spiritual delight of the lover for the assured 
content of marriage, or he was reluctant to startle Honor 
too suddenly from the tender contemplation of her rose 
of joy. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, i6i 

It was also agreed upon between them that though it 
was necessary to ask at once Miss Earle’s approval and 
consent, they should keep their golden secret a little 
longer from public disclosure, Oliver being made the 
only exception. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“ The darkness of death is like the evening twilight^ it makes all 
objects appear more lovely to the dying.” — R ichter. 

How at every turn in the road of life men have to 
reconcile themselves to renewed and irremediable dis- 
appointment ! 

When Honor Aylmer, accompanied by Miss Earle, 
arrived late in the afternoon of the next day at Methuen 
Place, Mrs. Gibson met them with red eyes and speech 
scarcely under command. 

Sir Giles was adored by all his dependents, to the sur- 
prise of some of his friends; but where large-hearted 
generosity exists in conjunction with rigid requirements 
as to essentials, and indulgence toward details, added 
to quick discernment of fidelity or the reverse, servants 
are sure to be loyal in spite of flaws in the master’s 
temper. There is nothing that less wins their favor than 
a slack, uncertain, unobservant rule. 

She told them, as well as she was able, that Sir Giles 
had been sinking rapidly during the last twenty-four 
hours, and that the symptoms now present were those 
which they had been warned would precede dissolution. 
He had become suddenly worse soon after Mr. Methuen 
had left the house the day before, and was almost 
speechless on his return. Since then he had rallied a 
little, and had insisted on having his old servants sum- 
moned to his bedside to bid them farewell, and was now 
in the very act of receiving the last offices of the Church, 
both Fathers Price and Francis being in attendance. 

She added, “ he was in a heavenly frame of mind” — a 
statement which drew a doubtful smile from Miss Earle’s 
stanch Protestantism, and a sigh of indefinable desire 
from Honor. 

The two ladies exchanged looks of hesitation and 
sympa-thy, and then the elder said : 


i 62 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ I think, if you see no objection, we should like to 
wait a little while, in case of change or improvement in 
poor Sir Giles; no one need know that we are here.” 

The housekeeper showed them into a sitting-room, 
and lingered a little longer at Miss Earle’s request. 

” Mr. Methuen, no doubt, feels it very deeply?” she 
asked. “ He will be left very much alone in the world.” 

” It would be a strange thing if Mr. Methuen did not 
feel it,” was Mrs. Gibson’s almost indignant rejoinder, 
” for Sir Giles took to him from the first more like a 
father than anything else. The thing he feels most now 
is parting from him; it would go to any one’s heart to 
see the way he lies in bed and watches him, and his 
voice has a different sound when he speaks to him after 
another. But there, what can you expect? Who could 
help loving Mr. Methuen out of the common? There 
isn’t a stable-boy about the place who doesn’t do the 
best he knows to please him ; and if Sir Giles has treated 
him like a father, no son could have gone beyond him in 
duty.” 

“I agree,” said Miss Earle, briskly; “very few young 
men watch month after month in a father’s sick-room as 
Mr. Methuen has done. He must be very much worn 
out.” 

“You would think so, but he doesn’t show it. Some 
people have a way of soon knocking themselves up with 
nursing and calling out for pity instead of*the patient, 
just because they neglect all reasonable ways of taking 
care of their health. Now, Mr. Methuen goes out for a 
good walk every day, and takes his meals regular; but 
for all that, there are not many hours in the twenty- 
four when he is out of Sir Giles’ room, and that’s hard 
upon a young man when all’s said and done.” 

At this moment a bell rang from the upper portion of 
the house. Mrs. Gibson turned a little pale. 

“ It’s the dear master’s bell,” she said. “ Excuse me a 
few minutes, ladies.” 

“ Only,” said Honor, catching her hand, “ come back 
and tell us, or send.” 

They waited a few moments in painful suspense ; at 
least it was acutely painful to Honor. Miss Earle could 
not help letting her eye wander over the furniture of 
the room in which they were sitting, and speculating 
upon the radical changes that would b^e necessary before 
Methuen Place could be made ready for its new mistress. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 163 

She condemned herself for the involuntary callousness, 
but could not feel any profound emotion at the passing 
away of a feeble, querulous old man, who had no ties 
upon her regard. 

Then the door unexpectedly opened, and Philip him- 
self entered. 

His face was so pale, and his manner so intensely quiet 
and controlled, that Miss Earle felt a little startled. 

“lam sure,” he said, addressing her first, “you will 
excuse all ceremony. My uncle is dying; he knows 
you are here, and he has asked to see Honor. Have I 
your permission to take her to him?” Then he added 
quickly, “ You know what that consent means?” 

“ Take her — if you will,” was Miss Earle’s answer, and 
her voice was scarcely under her control. 

“ Come, Honor !” he said, and he took her hand and 
led her out of the room. 

The sick man, over whose eyes the films of death 
were already gathering, looked eagerly toward the door 
as it opened. Mrs. Gibson was sobbing at the foot of 
the bed, and the two priests knelt one on either side. 

“ Leave us for a few moments alone,” said Philip, ad- 
dressing the elder of the two ; “ I will summon you again 
immediately.” 

Father Price retired at once, not without a kindly 
glance at the tall beautiful girl whose hand Philip still 
retained, but the other (the same who had slept at his 
watch over poor Mark Methuen’s remains) made some 
slight protest. 

“ Suffer it to be so now,” urged Philip, with an anxious 
glance toward the bed ; “ let the responsibility rest 
with me.” 

“ The responsibility of calling back a parting soul fresh 
from the consecration of his Maker is a heavy one, my 
son, and not to be lightly assumed,” said the old priest, 
in a tone as devoid of sensibility as sounding brass ; but 
he could not resist the decision of the young man’s man- 
ner, and reluctantly followed his brother into the ante- 
room. 

Philip led Honor up to Sir Giles Methuen’s right hand, 
and the girl sank reverently on her knees beside the bed, 
and fixed her tender suffused eyes upon the ashen face. 

“ I am here,” she said, in low tones of exquisite 
pathos; “ give me your blessing.” 

Sir Giles with a concentrated effort fixed his failing 


i 64 the story of PHILIP METHUEN. 

eyes on her sweet face, and a faint smile trembled on 
his lips. 

Philip, anticipating the purpose he had no strength to 
express, knelt beside Honor, and taking her hand in his, 
put it solemnly against his lips. 

'‘We are pledged to each other for life or death,” he 
said, “ and it will soften our sorrow to know that you 
are satisfied.” 

Sir Giles succeeded in raising his hand and putting it 
on the clasped hands of the pair kneeling beside him. 
Then a few words ebbed slowly from his lips. 

“ Be good to him, my dear,” speaking to Honor, “ and 
pay him back for me.” 

His eyes wandered to his nephew and a sudden spasm 
passed over his face. Human heartstrings of necessity 
break and let go, but they bleed under the process, and 
there was a look of such poignant anguish in the gaze 
that met his, that it added a bitter sweetness to the final 
pangs. 

His lips moved again, but utterance was over; and 
had it been otherwise, no words could have been ade- 
quate to express the yearning love and wistful hope 
which were the last conscious moments of the old man’s 
spirit on this side the undiscovered country. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ Now, by heaven, 

My blood begins my safer guides to rule, 

And passion having my best judgment choler’d, 

Assays to lead the way.” 

— Shakspeare. 

It was a subject of some surprise and general remark 
that the death of Sir Giles Methuen seemed to be so pro- 
foundly mourned by his nephew. Not that there was 
any demonstrativeness in Philip’s grief ; it had the depth, 
sincerity, and strength which were the elements of his 
character. 

For the six weeks following the funeral he shut him- 
self up in the gray old Place, making it to be distinctly 
understood that he neither visited nor received visits. 
It was a foreign custom by no means acceptable to Eng- 
lish notions, and Miss Earle’s dissatisfaction almost ap- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 165 

proached resentment, for no exception was made in 
favor of Earlescourt. 

“ You are satisfied with your lover, Honor?” she 
asked dryly. “ He is certainly not made for working 
days.” 

” I am quite satisfied,” she answered, and her sweet 
face had that marvellous radiance with which happy love 
transfigures the countenances of some women. “ He 
writes to me every day.” 

Miss Earle shrugged her shoulders. “ Let us be thank- 
ful for small mercies! I feel bound to warn you, dear 
Honor, against taking too obivously the attitude of wor- 
shipper; it is a temptation which corrupts even the 
virtue of an archangel, and I suppose that Sir Philip 
Methuen himself does not stand higher than that. 
Somehow my mind misgives me — I have always held 
paragons in fear.” 

“You mean — that you do not trust Philip.^” Honor 
smiled with a superb assurance. 

“Not exactly that; but I can hardly believe that we 
can have a commonplace wedding, a refurbishing of tar- 
nished splendors, and prosaic bliss afterward, when he 
is the hero ! You know the Methuen motto and legend — 
^ Hides non felicitas ' — and that ill-luck is the inheritance 
of every heir to the title? But forgive me, darling; I am 
only jesting in order to keep your ideal expectations 
within reasonable bounds.” 

It was true that Honor was looking both grave and 
pale. 

“ I cannot conceive what could come between us but 
death,” she said. “ Together there would be nothing to 
fear.” 

“And that ‘together’ will not be very long delayed, 
sweet,” kissing her tenderly. “ I admire the commqn- 
sense of poor Sir Giles, who laid that injunction on his 
nephew; and at bottom, perhaps, I admire the self-denial 
of the nephew himself. Let us say that he loves you, 
dear, almost as well as you deserve.” 

The singular seclusion observed by the new baronet 
was equally a subject of discussion at Skeffington Vicar- 
age. It would have been a matter of astonishment to 
any one unacquainted with the craving hunger after per- 
sonal details which seems the normal condition of coun- 
try society, and is only to be paralleled by the mysteri- 
ous sagacity with which it scents them out, how every 


i66 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH. 

movement of young Methuen was watched and known. 
How often the family solicitors visited him — whether 
Mr. Chapman stayed all night or otherwise — every occa- 
sion when the old priest at Crawford was his guest, or 
he walked himself to the chapel for early celebration, — 
were circumstances as well known to his neighbors as 
himself. 

Anna Trevelyan, from the time when he came almost 
as a child to the vicarage, had been in the habit of brib- 
ing her aunt’s housemaid, Janet, for news of the doing 
at Methuen Place, increasing her bribes with the diffi- 
culty or necessity of obtaining it. The fact of the girl 
having a brother in the stables of the house established a 
natural line of communication, and was prized by Anna 
as an inestimable piece of good fortune. In this way 
she was kept pretty well informed of his visits to Earles- 
court, and had even known of that paid by Miss Earle 
and Honor to Sir Giles Methuen on the day of his death. 

This circumstance quickened to an almost intolerable 
degree the latent jealousy and misgiving she had always 
entertained in respect to Honor Aylmer, and she began 
again eagerly to revolve schemes for placing herself in 
direct communication with Philip. The obstacle which 
had stood between their intercourse was surely now re- 
moved by the death of the selfish old man (there are 
none so keen to detect selfishness as those whose motive- 
power it is), who had monopolized the time and affec- 
tion of his nephew. What was there now to prevent 
the recognition and fulfilment of the contract which, she 
never ceased to try and persuade herself, dated back to 
her childhood — his excessive scruples about visiting at 
a house where he had been forbidden ; the failure of his 
expectation of meeting her at Earlescourt to which he 
had referred; his exaggerated respect for his uncle’s 
memory, and monkish way of showing it?” 

She never concealed from herself that her regard for 
Philip Methuen was a much more active and powerful 
sentiment than his for her, and that it would be part of 
the function of her love to kindle the flame of passion 
from her own torch ; but she accepted the necessity as 
the natural outcome of his priestly training, and the 
prospect of breaking down the barriersof his coldness and 
reserve rather stimulated her imagination than otherwise. 

But this was only so long as he was equally indifferent 
to all other women : the notion of his feeling an}^ attrac- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 167 

tion toward Honor Aylmer beyond the moral compla- 
cency he had often expressed, and which moved Anna’s 
unmitigated contempt, worked so powerfully against 
her peace of mind that the routine of her aunt’s house- 
hold became daily a burden heavier to bear. 

The one mitigating circumstance was the seclusion 
which Philip thought proper to observe, and which, she 
had kept herself informed, was not violated by any in- 
tercourse with the Earlescourt family. 

Anna had succeeded in keeping her visit to the Roman 
Catholic chapel a secret from her aunt. On the day in 
question she had dismissed her carriage at a discreet 
distance from the vicarage, arid had then walked quietly 
into Mrs. Sylvestre’s presence with the announcement 
that she had been taking a walk before breakfast in 
hopes of getting rid of a headache, which, she added, 
“ is so bad that I shall never be able to boast immunity 
again.” 

So well had her diplomacy succeeded, that she had 
thought it better to get a note conveyed to Methuen 
Place, through the usual channel of communication, 
telling Philip not to come to the vicarage as he had 
promised, the matter being arranged without his interfer- 
ence. 

Such was the condition of affairs about five weeks 
after the death of Sir Giles, when the vicar, coming in 
as usual one afternoon from his parish rounds, said, as 
he took his place at the tea-table, invariably spread and 
surrounded at the same hour : 

“ I forgot to mention that I met Mrs. Gibson in the 
park yesterday — a very worthy creature, my dear, is 
Mrs. Gibson — and learned some news of the new baronet.” 

Mrs. Sylvestre instinctively bridled : the commenda- 
tion of the stanch old papist housekeeper would cer- 
tainly have been met by protest or disclaimer, only she 
was not unwilling to hear what had been communicated, 
and deemed interruption unseasonable. 

“ You will be surprised to hear,” pursued Mr. Sylvestre, 
examining with some natural disappointment the con- 
tents of an almost exhausted tin of sardines, “ that Mrs. 
Gibson has been in town for the last ten days engaged in 
choosing and furnishing some bachelor chambers for Sir 
Philip Methuen.” 

“ lam not in the least surprised,” interrupted Mrs. Syl- 
vestre, severely ; “ I am quite prepared to see the young 


1 68 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH, 

man indemnify himself for the unnatural restrictions of 
his youth by running a course of profligate self-indul- 
gence in the future. It is simply the effect of a cause ; 
and, I ask, what is there to restrain him in a religion 
formulated to accommodate itself to the worst weak- 
nesses of human nature?” 

“I don’t think, my dear,” replied the vicar, a little 
dryly, ” that the young man in question will draw very 
heavily on his spiritual privileges. It appears that Lord 
Sainsbury is expected home in wretched health, which 
of course we already knew from the newspapers, and 
has telegraphed to young Methuen to meet him in town. 
There is some press-work to be got out of hand which 
was intrusted to him when he left India, and must see 
the light before Parliament meets. Let us hope that 
this will help to keep him out of mischief.” 

“ In that case it would have been more reasonable for 
Philip Methuen to take up his abode under Lord Sains- 
bury ’s own roof.” 

Mrs. Sylvestre spoke with that air of finality which is 
never more influential than when we are arranging our 
neighbor’s affairs. 

“ Lord Sainsbury only stops in town a few days, and 
then goes on at once to some warmer climate. His 
town-house is not open; he will go to Claridge’s, but 
Methuen prefers a domicile of his own. His work will 
keep him in town some time, it appears — not a cheerful 
prospect at this time of the year.” 

It was Anna’s policy never to betray the interest she 
felt in this subject to her aunt. The news she had just 
heard was absolutely unacceptable, baffling her plans, 
and rendering her course of conduct more difficult than 
ever; but she ate her dry toast, and sipped her milk 
(which was the diet she preferred) , with her habitual 
air of indifference to whatever subject w^as under dis- 
cussion. 

Inwardly she blessed the minuteness of her aunt’s 
curiosity when Mrs. Sylvestre asked : 

“ And where are Philip Methuen’s apartments?” 

“ In Bruton Street, I think she said, and that he was 
going up to town in a day or two. One thing is certain, 
he will not be much missed ! It can never be sufficiently 
deplored that Skeffington parish is in the hands of a 
Catholic proprietor. I hear it reported that the new 
baronet means to restore the home chapel at the Place, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 169 


and bring over a chaplain from some foreign seminary ; 
but I trust his friends at Earlescourt will advise him 
against doing anything so unpopular.” 

“ His friends at Earlescourt or elsewhere will never 
influence Philip Methuen much,” replied Mrs. Sylvestre 
with a sneer ; and then she added, moved by the associa- 
tion of ideas, “ I cannot understand, Anna, how it is that 
the Earle family have seemingly dropped your acquaint- 
ance since you returned from town ; there is more in it, 
I begin to suspect, than you choose to explain.” 

In spite of herself Anna felt the hot blood rise in her 
cheeks, and was aware that every one at the table looked 
at her. Mrs. Sylvestre compressed her thin lips with an 
ominous change of countenance, and began to talk labori- 
ously of something else ; but when the meal was over, 
she called Anna into the drawing-room — a room rarely 
used when the family were alone, but always made the 
scene of important discussion or of the administration of 
parental law. 

“ I have sent for you,” she said, “ to ask you once more 
— as I have often asked you before, only this time I mean 
to have an answer — the reason why you cut short your 
visit to the Earles in London, and of their casting you 
off since their return?” 

She spoke with the quiet incisiveness which, as Anna 
expressed it, meant mischief ; and the girl was quick to 
perceive that another occasion had arisen for a mutual 
trial of strength. Would it suit her purpose best to defy 
her aunt or to yield? 

“I was tired of them,” she answered sullenly; “I 
wanted to come home.” 

“ You are not apt to be soon tired of a life of luxurious 
indolence, and of opportunities for the indulgence of 
your love of pleasure and personal display ; your excuses 
lack ingenuity, Anna. Try again !” 

The sneer wrought upon Anna. Her eyes flashed. 

“ Have the truth if you will,” she said with a gesture 
of defiance ; “ I came home because Adrian Earle made 
love to me.” 

Daring as she was, she felt startled by the change in 
her aunt’s face; the color ebbed from cheeks and lips, 
and a cold gleam of sinister meaning came into her 
eyes. She looked as if she had received a blow ; and it 
was true that she had — one, the force of which she was 
only able to estimate by degrees. 


170 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

Do you mean,” she asked, in a low suppressed voice, 
that Adrian Earle made you an offer of marriage?” 

“ What else could I mean? To what other end was he 
likely to make love to me?” 

“ And you refused him?” 

“ I refused him,” repeated Anna. 

There was a pause. It would be hard to convey the 
idea of the rage and disappointment in Mrs. Sylvestre’s 
mind. Here had been a solution of the problem as to 
the final disposal of her niece, beyond her wildest expec- 
tations and desires ; so much indeed beyond the latter 
and the girl’s deserts, that it would have been thoroughly 
obnoxious to her except for the incalculable advantages 
such a position would have won for her own children ; 
and Anna, with a perverseness beyond calculation, 
prompted by an almost inconceivable malice, had thrown 
her chance away ! 

“ And this is why you come home? You complain of 
your life here, and the burden of poverty and dependence, 
and you had the offer of becoming mistress of Earles- 
court, and — refused it! I do not believe you.” 

Anna shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable 
indifference. In Mrs. Sylvestre’s mood of irritation it 
was more than she could bear ; her accustomed self-con- 
trol escaped her, and she grasped the girl’s arm with 
passionate violence. 

“ Or if,” she resumed in a hissing whisper, “ if it be true, 
there is some shamful explanation of the fact. What 
is it? You would not be Lewis Trevelyan’s daughter 
if, sooner or later, you failed to disgrace the name !” 

Anna wrenched herself away from her aunt’s grasp 
with a face white and distorted with anger. Mrs. Syl- 
vestre had put her finger on the most sensitive spot in 
the girl’s heart: her whole being was in revolt. 

Mother of God !” she cried, and she raised her hand 
as if in invocation, while her face flamed with the white 
heat of her passion. “ I will never forgive you I If I 
live for ever and ever, I will never forgive you!” And 
she turned and fled from the room. 

' Where should she go? What should she do? She 
was beside herself with rage and indignation — the insult 
to her father’s memory scorched her brain like fire. Oh, 
that she had some friend at hand who would receive her, 
so that she might never taste the ignominy of sleeping 
or breaking bread under that miserable roof again ! 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 171 

And then came another turn of thought. Had she not 
a friend — the man who had stood by her dead father’s 
side, and renewed in that awful presence the pledges he 
had so often given before? Who had said, “ My child, I 
love you dearly — love me a little ! I will take care of 
you as long as I live.” 

He was not yet gone to London. She could go to 
him, and tell him the hour was come beyond postpone- 
ment when he must make good his words. His days of 
forced mourning were over ; it remained for her to bring 
back warmth and joy into his desolation. 

This was the first impulse of her mood of outrage and 
excitement, but as her passion exhausted itself, certain 
whispers of prudence and common-sense made them- 
selves heard. It was now the middle of October, and 
daylight was already gone ; there was neither moon nor 
stars, and the wind was rising. How could she, alone 
and at such an hour, demand admission at Methuen 
Place of the sleek, self-important, inquisitive servants 
who must answer her summons at the door? There 
was no means at this season of the year of stealing ad- 
mission into the house as she had done before. More- 
over, might not Mrs. Sylvestre, finding she had escaped 
in her desperation, follow her to the one only asylum 
where her desperation could take refuge? 

No; if she were wise, and would succeed in compass- 
ing the end she had in view, she must delay her appeal 
to Philip Methuen till the next day : it would be easy to 
make it appear she was the bearer of some message from 
the vicarage ; or, in the wholesome light of day, what 
necessity to consider appearances at all? She should at 
once pass that and all other anxieties into his hands. 

For the remainder of the evening she kept her room, 
and was allowed to keep it — a circumstance which Anna 
readily translated into a proof that Mrs. Sylvestre recog- 
nized and probably regretted her intemperance, which 
conclusion increased her contempt without softening her 
resentment. She appeared, as a matter of precaution, 
at the breakfast-table the next morning, pale, sullen, 
and taciturn ; but this behavior also appeared to be con- 
doned — her aunt at least, whom she avoided looking at, 
making no comment. 

Mr. Sylvestre looked somewhat sharply toward her, 
his wife’s tolerance naturally reducing his own. 

“ What is wrong with Anna this morning.^” he asked. 


172 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ She looks as if she had not slept all night, or had got 
out of bed on the wrong side this morning.” 

These homely phrases transported Anna with mingled 
disdain and indignation; her lip curled, her sensitive 
nostril dilated, and she straightened her neck with an 
air of imperial scorn. The vicar’s eyes lingered upon 
the picture almost involuntarily. 

“ What a splendid creature it is !” he said to himself. 
‘'I devoutly wish she were safe in some good man’s 
keeping !” 

After breakfast Anna again retired to her room, mean- 
ing to take the first opportunity of escaping unobserved 
from the house; but circumstances helped her scheme. 
She had not been long there when Dorothy came in. 

“ Mamma wants me to take a message to Mrs. Mitchel 
at once,” she said. It’s a little vexing ! I have not got 
that new chant perfect, and meant to practise it this 
morning.” 

What is the message T asked Anna indiff erentl y. “ Is 
there any answer wanted?” 

” No ; only to say mamma is willing to give Mr. Mitchel 
ten shillings for the silver-spangled Hambro’ cock. She 
objected at first, as being too much. I think it is too 
much.” 

“ I will go,” said Anna. “ The vicar is right. I look, 
fit for nothing this morning; a walk will do me good.” 

A quarter of an hour later she was walking leisurely 
across the vicarage garden ; leisurely through the long 
straggling village, where every eye that fell upon her 
knew her, till she reached the gate that led into Methuen 
Park. During this period of forced repression her excite- 
ment was growing fast — so fast that she refused to stop 
and answer the questions which pressed on heart and 
brain. 

What was she doing? What should she say when she 
and Philip Methuen stood face to face? She would not 
give ear even for a moment to the rising whispers of 
womanly pride and modesty ; she turned scornfully upon 
her struggling shames and hesitations, as pusillanimous 
and out of place. What should she say — would speech 
be needful? Would not her first glance challenge his 
manhood and quicken the slow blood in his veins? Would 
not a hint be enough to make him understand that she 
appealed to him in this extremity as her pledged knight 
— that she had flung off the protection of her aunt, whose 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 173 

cruelty had culminated in that last brutal insult, on the 
strength of her belief that a dearer and more secure 
asylum waited her so soon as she saw fit to claim it? 
Still, was not the fact that she needed to reassure herself 
after this fashion a proof of the extremity of her situa- 
tion? 

Anna stood still for a moment, and leaned against the 
trunk of one of the huge elm trees. Since she had en- 
tered the park she had walked so rapidly as to be already 
out of breath, and the conflict of her mind was still more 
exhausting. She drew a deep breath, and tried to settle 
and order her mind. 

It was a lowering, chilly, autumnal day : the gorgeous 
splendor of the kindled foliage had already faded, the 
crimson and gold had changed into sickly orange and 
brown, and the leaves, saturated with moisture, hung 
limp and dishevelled from the boughs. The occasional 
caw of a rook from one of the more distant plantations 
was the only sound which broke the dull silence of the 
thick oppressive atmosphere : the stream flowed so slug- 
gishly, she could scarcely detect the movement of the 
water, and its pleasant tinkle was dumb. The only 
figure in view was that of a boy threading the public 
road which crossed the park, with a heavy basket of 
bread upon his back, under which he seemed to labor 
and groan, shifting the burden continually from one 
shoulder to another. The girl was conscious of a feeling 
of impatient disgust as she marked his uncouth face and 
figure, and ungainly gait. 

She could distinguish the chimneys of the house where 
she stood, and observed how little a way the smoke rose 
in the heavy air. She moved slowly a few paces nearer, 
and the old gray mansion lay at her feet, dumb, too, as 
it seemed to her. Every window was closed, and the 
blinds drawn in all the principal rooms facing the gar- 
dens. 

A feeling of sickening disappointment, or rather of 
blind impotent fury as against some fate that mocked 
her, put new life into her limbs. A few moments more 
she had pulled the bell at the heavy gateway, and heard 
the sound reverberating through the house. An inter- 
val elapsed, brief indeed, but almost intolerable to her 
impatience, before the door was somewhat slowly 
opened, and Austin, the old butler, faced her in the wide 
issue. 


12 


174 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ Is Sir Philip Methuen at home? I have a message 
from my uncle, the vicar of Skeffington.” 

Whatever the inward sinking of her heart, her bearing 
was as stately and defiant as usual, and her beauty of 
that rare and perfect type which carries its message to 
high and low alike ; also, as a matter of necessity, the 
man was personally acquainted with her. 

“ I am very sorry, miss. Sir Philip started for town 
about half an hour ago ; but perhaps you will come in 
and speak to Mrs. Gibson?” 

Anna walked into the house like one in a dream, and 
sat down on the first chair that offered in the room into 
which Austin showed her. Her feelings seemed for a 
time in a state of collapse. Gone ! It did not in the least 
appear to her what she could do next, only instinct told 
her she must not let the keen-witted old housekeeper 
guess at her state of mind. When Mrs. Gibson came in, 
stiff and reserved as her manner was to strangers, and 
especially so to any member of the Sylvestre family, to 
say nothing of her quick sense of the obvious breach of 
propriety the vicar of Skeffington was committing in 
making his beautiful niece his messenger to the young 
master of the house, Anna rose from her seat resolute 
and on guard. The expression of the good woman’s face 
was at once a challenge and a warning. 

“ Sir Philip Methuen is gone to town already, I hear,” 
she said with perfect aplomb. “ That is a pity ! My 
uncle had an important commission he thought he would 
be good enough to undertake. I am a good walker, Mrs. 
Gibson, and offered to bring the message myself.” 

“ It is a written message of course. Miss Trevelyan? In 
that case, I can enclose it by to-day’s post to the master.” 

For a moment Anna felt herself at fault ; but in pro- 
portion to the inward difficulty was the steadfastness of 
the watch she kept on Mrs. Gibson’s face. 

“ Oh no, it was not written !” she answered. “ It was 
about some book the vicar wanted, and I was quite able 
to explain. You seem to forget that I have known your 
master ever since I was a tiny child : he taught me to 
read !” 

“He is not at home, at all events. Miss Trevelyan,” 
replied Mrs. Gibson, without any relenting of the lines 
of her face. “ Mr. Sylvestre must ask his favor by letter. 
I see no objection to giving you Sir Philip Methuen’s 
address.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. I7H 

She turned aside to a writing-table , as she spoke, so 
that the sudden change in Anna’s face was lost upon her 
— a change arising from the swift perception that to ob- 
tain his precise address was to place a new weapon in 
her hands. 

As Mrs. Gibson handed her the slip of paper, sh^ 
added, with an air of evident reluctance : “ I do not know 
whether Mr. Sylvestre may think his business important 
enough to take him to Tri Chester on the chance of meet- 
ing Sir Philip ; he does not go up to town till the after- 
noon express.” 

Perhaps few greater triumphs of self-control have been 
gained than was won by Anna Trevelyan on receiving 
this information without betrayal ; that the pallor of her 
skin flushed a little, and the light in her eyes concen- 
trated and darkened, were signs too delicate to be read 
by Mrs. Gibson, who had just removed her spectacles 
after having accomplished her little effort at penman- 
ship. 

“ I will tell my uncle what you say,” she answered — 
and there was a metallic ring in the habitually deep, 
melodious voice — “ and he will of course do as he thinks 
proper. No, thank you, I don’t require any refresh- 
ment.” 

A few minutes more and she was in the open air again, 
free to breathe, and think, and plan, with the quiet un- 
heeding sky above, and the unbroken solitude of the 
park all around. She walked away from the house 
mechanically, and in the homeward direction — for might 
not there be curious eyes watching her? — but when she 
had reached a certain turn in the path where she knew 
henself to be beyond observation, she stood still, took 
off the hat which weighed on her forehead, and passed 
her hand over her eyes and brow, as if to wipe away the 
sensations which oppressed her. 

She was in that mood of mind when the human heart 
cries upon God — upon the Power around and outside us, 
to help the reason that is consciously tottering, and 
scatter the darkness which, if left to thicken, means 
despair. 

She knew, as well as if she had seen him, that the man 
in whom her passionate life was bound up was at Earles- 
court, unable to leave home without bidding Honor Ayl- 
mer farewell, and — she could not bear it ! 

So much was it true that she could not bear it, that 


176 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEH 


her mind, with the instinct of self-preservation, instantly 
seized upon alleviations of the idea. They at Earles- 
court were his neighbors and best friends, and courtesy 
required that he should take leave of them. His kind- 
ness to Oliver Earle was of the kind he showed to all 
stricken and miserable creatures, and would be sure to 
lead him to go and see the youth before he went away. 
Sir Walter and Adrian might have suddenly returned. 
As for Honor, did she not know that his regard for her 
was of the sedate, ethical kind which might mean friend- 
ship, but not love? No, not love! 

And at that very moment the man and girl of whom 
she was thinking were standing together, hand locked 
in hand, her head upon his shoulder, his kisses upon her 
lips, and only no speech between them, because love has 
a finer medium of interpretation, and defies words to 
bear the burden of its joy. 

“Come into the garden,*’ he had said to her; “I can 
bear it better in the open air !” 

Bear it— the rapture of reunion, the pain of part- 
ing, brief as it was to be. “ A week hence I shall be 
home again. Honor, to ask you formally of Sir Walter 
Earle, and announce our engagement, and then” — his 
face kindled as he bent over her — “ sweet, you will re- 
member I have loved you for years with every breath I 
drew, and that my dear uncle’s pain in death was less- 
ened by his belief in your goodness. How soon will you 
consent to come to me?” 

But this was what Anna could not see or hear even in 
the hush of the solemn autumnal morning. Would it 
have made any difference had she been able? 

There was one way still open — she could avail herself 
of the chance of meeting him at the station. She cared 
nothing for consequences if her scheme miscarried, and 
if it succeeded, the care of the future would lie with him. 

Eight miles divided her from the county town; but 
she was vigorous enough to think lightly of the distance, 
and to walk there would help to pass the tedious hours 
away, besides the difficulty of finding any other way of 
getting to Trichester. Vehicles had to be hired from 
Crawford or Trichester itself, and were not to be picked 
up at any intermediate point. 

So Anna retraced her steps through the park, though 
at the farthest practicable distance from the house, and 
set her face steadily to her purpose. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


177 


On consulting her watch, she found she had no time 
to lose. It was then nearly twelve o’clock, and the ex» 
press was timed to leave Trichester at three. 

The road was an uninteresting beaten highway, with- 
out a single point of interest to her ; the free expanse of 
downs on either hand looked dreary enough under the 
brooding skies, and at no time commended themselves 
to the warm Italian instincts of the girl. She was much 
more fatigued than she expected to be when she at 
length entered the town, and saw by the huge clock of 
the parish church that only twenty minutes remained 
before the departure of the train. 

She had always been accustomed to look upon Tri- 
chester as dead and lifeless to the last degree ; but to- 
day it seemed to her strangely full of stir and bustle, and 
that every passer-by looked at her in spite of the effort 
she made to assume a brisk and business-like demeanor. 
She made her way at once to the station, where, to her 
vexation, she perceived the station-master already on 
the watch for the express. He recognized her and 
touched his cap. The refreshment-room was on a very 
meagre scale at Trichester ; yet it could at any rate have 
furnished Anna with a glass of milk and a biscuit, of 
which she stood sorely in need, but she dared not ask 
for them for fear of attracting attention and remark. 

“ I am waiting to see a friend off to town,” she ex- 
plained haughtily enough to the station-master, whose 
silent' observation as he passed her was becoming unbear- 
able. Indeed she felt increasingly that the whole situa- 
tion was becoming unbearable. The hands of the clock 
pointed to five minutes of the hour. A fair sprinkling 
of passengers had already gathered on the platform, 
where each was in full view of the other. 

What chance of speaking to Philip Methuen in a few 
breathless seconds, before the impertinent observation 
of outsiders? Would he not be astonished and displeased 
at the step she had taken? Was it not imperative to se- 
cure privacy enough for explanation before she ventured 
to show herself to him? How could this be done now? 
Still less, how could she go back to her shame and her mis- 
ery without doing it? What explanation of her protracted 
absence could she give that would satisfy Mrs. Syl- 
vestre’s vigilance? 

The train was sharply signalled ; the commotion 
quickened a little. 


178 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


“ Hold hard, Bill !” cried one of the porters. “ There’s 
one of the Earlesconrt carriages coming along like mad. 
It will take all they know to catch the train !” 

Anna looked, and read the explanation at a glance. 
He had lingered too long over his adieus, and taken the 
Earles’ carriage, because their horses were better than 
his own. Was she, after all, deceiving her own sonl, 
or was it rather in his mind to deceive her.^^ Her blood 
tingled in her veins. Was she of the temper to submit 
to treachery without protest — to stand aside, superseded 
without a struggle for her rights? Come what might, 
she would put his honor to the question. 

Her hand shook as she opened her purse. She had 
money enough for her ticket to town, but not much over. 

“ Open the carriage door, and get me my ticket,” she 
said to a porter standing close by her side. 

“ Where for, miss.^” asked the man, touching his cap. 

“ Waterloo,” whispered the girl, shrinking back into a 
corner of the carriage with bated courage and failing 
strength, for she had scarcely eaten anything that day, 
and dreaded nothing so much as that any eye should 
recognize her. 

At the moment the man placed her ticket in her hand, 
she saw Philip come on the platform. He was walking 
rapidly toward the already opened carriage, with the 
Earlesconrt footman following with his portmanteau, 
and the little station-master trotting almost obsequiously 
beside him, and laughing at his success in catching the 
train. He was dressed in deep mourning, but there was 
no mourning in his face. He looked in full vigor of 
body and mind, assured master of himself at all points, 
and of the blessedness which warmed his heart and 
touched his lips with a new sweetness, and his eyes with 
a direct and masculine light. 

To the girl who watched him furtively, he looked like 
the beautiful youth who had played about with her at 
the old farm at Fiesole — the pledged friend of her girl- 
hood and the redresser of her wrongs — the man whom 
no other woman should take from her. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


A 79 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


“ And she said, 

Not to be with you, not to see your face — 

Alas for me then, my good days are done 

—Tennyson. 

Before they had reached Salisbury the rain fell in 
torrents. This was the first pause on the line ; and at 
this point Anna’s carriage, which she had hitherto had 
to herself, was invaded by a party of travellers, consist- 
ing of mother, nurse, and three children. 

The girl had not only no love for children, but they 
were positively disagreeable to her; and although the 
year-old baby sat passive and wide-eyed on its nurse’s 
lap, and the two pretty little fellows, in their picturesque 
sailor suits, only offended by their infantile chatter and 
eagerness to see what little was to be discerned in the 
fast-growing darkness from both windows of the carriage 
at once, their presence and light-heartedness were almost 
more than she could endure in her condition of nervous 
tension. Of Methuen she saw nothing ; and the nearer 
they approached the capital, the greater became her 
passionate anxiety. The train had only made one other 
stoppage (at Vauxhall) between Salisbury and Water- 
loo, and by the time it reached the terminus night had 
fallen in effect, though it was only seven o’clock; and 
the special aspect of ugliness and disrepute which be- 
longs to that station was aggravated by the condition of 
the weather. 

Anna sprang out of her carriage almost before safety 
warranted. Her state of mind was by this time such 
that all doubt and diffidence were lost in what she felt 
was the extremity of her situation. Her claim upon 
Philip Methuen’s protection had taken a form it was im- 
possible for any man to resist. 

For the first few moments she did not see him — that 
is, she failed to discover him among the men who were 
leaving the first-class carriages, and none of the occu- 
pants of which, she was convinced, could have stirred 
from their seats before she had done. Also, she had 
marked the position of the carriage he had occupied with 
her usual precision ; but for those first few minutes she 


i8o THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

refused to accept the evidence of her senses. It was 
not till the train, which had been a short one, had dis- 
charged all its passengers, and was being promptly 
shunted off the line, that the iron fully entered into her 
soul. He was not there. Probably he had got out at 
Vauxhall; and she was alone and friendless in London, 
almost without money, or even money’s worth — for 
Anna’s disdain of ornaments led to her seldom wearing 
any of the costly trinkets she possessed — and with her 
hope dead within her breast. 

The train had emptied itself so rapidly that there had 
scarcely been time for her appearance to attract atten- 
tion, and her fellow-travellers were close behind her. 
She heard the clear, shrill voice of one of the boys in 
eager exclamation : “ Papa ! I see papa ! Remember I 
was the first to find him out !” She hated him for the 
rapture which brought home more acutely to her soul 
the sense of her own despair. At the same moment a 
porter civilly accosted her with the usual formula as to 
luggage and cab. 

“ I have no luggage, but I want a cab — not a hansom.” 

The girl offered him a shilling as she stepped into the 
unsavory recesses of the four-wheeler, with a grim 
sense of the discrepancy between her liberality and her 
purse : there is a sort of ghastly humor which walks side 
by side with some moods of desperation. 

“ Tell him Bruton Street, No. 17,” she said to the por- 
ter, who was still officiously hanging about the cab- 
door. What else could she say? 

During the short transit Anna sat erect, defying her 
fate. The stakes for which she was playing were so 
tremendous that to lose courage or faculty of resource 
meant ruin — ruin for such as she was! Involuntarily 
she raised her beautiful head with the old gesture of 
superb assurance. She was weak because she was faint 
with hunger, and it would be wise to renew her strength 
before fighting the battle that lay before her. She 
stopped the cab before the door of a pastry-cook’s shop 
they were passing. 

“Wait ten minutes,” she said to the driver, with as 
cool and haughty a gaze into the man’s face as if she 
had been at ease in an assured position. “ You need not 
be uneasy — I will pay you well.” 

She went in and satisfied her hunger with some soup 
and bread, but the latter seemed to choke her. Appetite 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, i8i 

was in abeyance, though exhaustion had made itself felt. 
She returned to the cab less invigorated than she had 
hoped. The rain was still falling ; the lamps reflected 
their shadows on the wet, gleaming pavements; the 
dripping unfurled umbrellas of the tide of pedestrians — 
a tide which never ebbs — added to the oppressed and un- 
picturesque aspect of the streets. London looked squalid 
to her eyes — not like the same city as it had appeared to 
her, rolling through its West-end thoroughfares in one 
of the Earles’ well-appointed carriages. 

Another brief interval, and the cab stopped before the 
house in Bruton Street; the cabman descended, and 
came round for instructions. 

“ Knock and inquire if Sir Philip Methuen is arrived,” 
said Anna, pronouncing the name with deliberate dis- 
tinctness. 

The man obeyed, and after a moment or two, evidently 
spent in colloquy with the woman who had opened the 
door to him, came back with a negative. 

“There is some mistake,” she said in answer; “ask 
the mistress of the house to come out and speak to me — 
or wait, I will get out myself.” 

She walked through the still open doorway of the 
house, and confronted the woman who stood waiting in 
the hall, with an air at once modest and assured, and 
with a skilful avoidance of the light of the lamp from 
falling at once upon the beauty of her face. 

“This is the house, No. 17,” she asked, “where my 
aunt, Mrs. Gibson, has taken apartments for Sir Philip 
Methuen? He will not be here for a day or two possi- 
bly — he is gone to Claridge’s Hotel to meet a friend 
from India, and I have been sent with a list of things to 
make his rooms more comfortable and homelike.” 

The woman looked at her steadily. 

“ And how am I to know, miss, that you are Mrs. Gib- 
son’s niece? It is not the right time of day for a re- 
spectable young woman to come to a strange house on 
business of that sort.” 

“No indeed!” said Anna, suffering her voice to fall a 
little. “ I was afraid how it would strike you, and have 
been fretting about it as I came along in the cab. But 
Methuen Place is eight miles from Tri Chester, as no 
doubt Mrs. Gibson would tell you, and I just lost my train 
and had to wait for the express. My aunt would be in a 
dreadful state of mind if she knew I was out in the 


i 82 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


streets of London alone so late; as we timed it this 
morning, I ought to have been here at three o’clock at 
latest. See! she wrote down the address for me last 
night, for fear it should slip my memory.” 

The girl produced from her pocket the neatly written 
slip of paper which the old housekeeper had given her 
that morning. The landlady glanced at it, and saw her 
own name and address in the careful, laborious hand- 
writing she immediately recognized as Mrs. Gibson’s, 
from whom she had received several written communi- 
cations. It was evidence not to be gainsaid, and the 
simple directness of Anna’s manner was difficult to mis- 
trust, in spite of the inevitable suspicion her good looks 
excited. Also the remarkable plainness of her dress 
helped the illusion — Anna owed more than she knew to 
her straight, unflounced skirts. She was quick to detect 
the advantage gained. 

“ My aunt said that if I could not get my work done 
in time to-day, perhaps you would let me have a bed 
under your roof instead of going to a hotel, which is not 
nice for a young woman by herself ; and then, perhaps, 
you might be able to go shopping with me to-morrow? 
It is quite certain now I shall not be able to get my work 
done to-day.” There was a sob in her voice. 

London landladies as a class are reported to be lynx- 
eyed and callous-hearted; and probably they adapt 
themselves, like other things, to their environment; but 
there are exceptions. Also Mrs. Baillie was not a little 
influenced by the fact that she and the old housekeeper 
from Methuen Place had discovered that they were both 
west-country women; and although one hailed from 
Somerset and the other from Dorset, this is held as kin- 
ship in the Philistine capital. Moreover, she had a very 
imperfect idea of Sir Philip Methuen’s age and appear- 
ance ; she had not yet seen him, and Mrs. Gibson was 
not garrulous. 

A few minutes more saw the cabman dismissed — Anna 
discreetly slipping her last half-crown into Mrs. Baillie’s 
hand for the purpose — and her asylum for the night 
secured. Just as the cab had turned the corner of the 
street and disappeared in the darkness, Anna suddenly 
clasped her hands together with a gesture of -distress. 

“ My bag — my new handbag!” she cried. “ I have left 
it in the cab! What shall I do, Mrs. Baillie? My aunt 
packed it for me so carefully this morning ; and I had 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 183 

some receipts in it for you for Sir Philip, who is very 
particular about what he eats. She will never forgive 
me !” 

She burst into tears, and sobbed hysterically : it was 
a safety-valve for her excitement of which she eagerly 
availed herself, for such passionate overflow was a ne- 
cessity of her nature; and the violence and genuine- 
ness of her grief made a final conquest of Mrs. Baillie’s 
motherly heart. For the rest of the evening all was 
plain sailing; Anna was treated as guest and equal, and 
accommodated herself to circumstances with admirable 
facility, entertaining Mrs. Baillie with anecdotes of the 
Methuen family, which removed the last lingering doubts 
from her mind; and then, well fed, well warmed, and 
elated by success, she was conducted at night to a com- 
fortable little bedchamber adjoining that of her hostess. 

She had supposed that excitement would have pre- 
vented her from sleeping, but youth and fatigue were 
too strong for her, and her eyes closed almost as soon as 
her head was laid on the pillow. 

The next morning brought a note from Methuen to 
Mrs. Baillie, to Anna’s thankful relief, from Claridge’s 
Hotel, saying that he would take possession of his rooms 
in the course of the day, and would rely upon finding 
everything in readiness. This note put the good woman 
into a considerable flutter ; the terms on which she had 
let her rooms had been so advantageous, and Mrs. Gib- 
son’s injunctions and personal painstakings had been 
so solicitous, that she held her new tenant in anxious 
respect. 

“Look round the rooms yourself, my dear,” she said 
to Anna, “ and you will be able to see if they are all 
right. What a pity the list you spoke of was in the bag ! 
Don’t you remember some of the things Mrs. Gibson 
mentioned?” 

Anna rapidly enumerated certain articles — an easy- 
chair of a particular description, a reading-lamp of some 
special construction — but added she would prefer to wait 
now till she had heard again from her aunt. 

She professed to have written to Mrs. Gibson that 
morning, telling of her misadventures, and excusing her- 
self accordingly, and had, indeed, read the letter to the 
sympathizing Mrs. Baillie, and had taken it for better 
safety to the post herself, where, it need not be said, it 
was never deposited. 


i 84 the story of PHILIP METHUEN. 


As the day wore on, Anna’s excitement grew almost 
beyond her control, and she welcomed it as a priceless 
relief when Mrs. Baillie announced her intention of going 
out for an hour for commissariat purposes, saying that 
it was a comfort to leave some one in the house to look 
after the little maid. “ There was no knowing what 
mischief they did when left to themselves ; she might 
even go pulling things about in Sir Philip Methuen’s 
own rooms!” 

To those rooms Anna now betook herself. The sit- 
ting-room fronted the street ; she would be able to hear 
a cab stop and the street door open and shut. She sat 
down in a chair placed in a dark corner, and began her 
passionate watch. “ I think,” she said to herself, as she 
bowed her aching forehead upon her burning hands, 
“ that I shall go mad if he does not come soon ! I feel 
as if I could not take up this farce again.” 

She forced herself, by mere dint of will, to sit quite 
motionless for a quarter of an hour, timing it by the 
chimes of a neighboring church clock. But it was re- 
served for her to hear all the remaining hours of the 
day chimed from the church steeple, before Philip 
Methuen arrived ; and when at length he came, it was 
so late at night that the girl had been obliged to retire 
to her room unable to play her part any longer. 

Mrs. Baillie came in to speak to her before she went 
to bed, and Anna was quick to observe a change in her 
manner. 

“ I had no notion he was such a young and handsome 
gentleman !” she said ; and there was unmistakable sus- 
picion in the glance she cast at Anna. But Anna was 
already undressed, and ready for bed; what mattered 
the landlady’s loss of confidence? She could not turn 
her out of doors that night, and to-morrow-^to-morrow 
would vindicate her position for all time. 

That night was added to the short list of Anna Trevel- 
yan’s ’vigils; she lay awake in a half-delirious trance of 
anticipation, her brain suggesting, almost realizing, the 
incidents so soon to be lived in reality. The phantom 
bliss which had eluded her so long was to be grasped — 
to-morrow ! 

She would claim her own, and maintain her claim in 
face of any obstacle raised by faithlessness on the one 
side, or feminine artfulness on the other. 

She could condone — smiles of passionate tenderness 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 185 

touched her lips in the darkness, as she asked herself 
what it was she could not condone to Philip Methuen — 
but she would never relinquish. 

The knowledge of his vicinity so stirred her pulses and 
warmed the eager blood in her veins, as to make her 
forced quiescence a physical martyrdom. But at last 
daylight, as seen dimly in a narrow London street, 
dawned, and the welcome sounds of life and movement 
in the house became audible. 

Anna’s bedroom was at the top of the house, as we 
have said, close to that occupied by the landlady. Mrs. 
Baillie came in to speak to her before going downstairs. 

“ I would rather send you your breakfast up here. 
Miss Gibson,” she said in quite a diiferent tone from the 
day before, and with a hard look in her eyes ; “ and you 
shall go home, if you please, to your tont by the first 
train this morning.” And she whisked out of the cham- 
ber without giving opportunity for reply. 

Anna rose at once, conscious that there was no time 
to lose ; for how could she depend upon Methuen’s move- 
ments? 

She dressed herself with elaborate care (as birds preen 
their feathers), plaiting and arranging her magnificent 
hair to the best advantage, and proudly comforting her- 
self with the belief, as she studied the reflection of her 
face in the meagre little looking-glass, that her beauty 
was of the type which owes little or nothing to the ac- 
cessories of dress. 

She was now in her nineteenth year, tall as Honor 
was tall, and straight as a young pine-tree, with a certain 
regal gait and air which seemed to challenge the world 
at large to offer her anything beyond her rights. The 
contour of the oval olivet face, with its perceptive fore- 
head and shoi't firm chin, was perfect ; and the skin was 
of so exquisite a texture and tint that the color which it 
lacked would have seemed a superfluity. This fine pallor 
aided the effect of the full molded lips, the slightly 
aquiline nose, the delicate black brows, which overarched 
eyes that were the crown of her beauty. To look into 
Anna Trevelyan’s eyes was to encounter not only the 
physical charm of perfect color and form, and the allure- 
ment which hangs on heavily fringed eyelids, but an 
expression of such passionate wistfulness as caught the 
attention of even the most casual observer, and quickened 
the pulse of interest and admiration. 


i86 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


She wore a blue serge gown, with soft muslin frills at 
throat and wrist ; but the latter had unquestionably lost 
their freshness. It was not a particularly becoming 
garb, but it fell into place about the girl’s supple waist 
and noble limbs in folds and lines of harmonious adapta- 
tion. 

Never had she looked so beautiful in all her life be- 
fore : there was a suffusion in the lustrous eyes, a soft- 
ness about the parted lips, through which the fragrant 
breath came in half-unconscious sighs of intense repres- 
sion, and a faint flush upon the cheek, which were like 
an accomplished painter’s last touches to a picture held 
to be perfect before. 

She waited till the little maid had brought her the 
tray containing her breakfast, and had had time to 
reach the lower regions of the house again. And then, 
stealing out of the room, she glided quietly downstairs, 
and put her hand upon the lock of the door of Philip 
Methuen’s sitting-room. If he were not already there — 
but she hoped much from her knowledge of his early 
habits — she would wait for him. 

He was there ; sitting with his back to the door at a 
side-table covered with papers, which he had evidently 
just removed from the strong leather case which stood 
open beside him. At the opening of the door he turned 
round, and on recognizing Anna Trevelyan, he instinc- 
tively rose to his feet. 

For a moment he almost seemed to doubt the evidence 
of his senses : the first flash of thought pointing to the 
baffling difficulty of her being on the scene at that early 
hour of the morning, with the home in which he imagined 
he had left her securely sheltered, more than a hundred 
miles away. Also, he was fully aware that she had not 
a single friend in London at this season of the year. 
Was the woman of the house known to her by some 
strange twist of circumstance, and had she sought her 
protection under some, exaggerated sense of injury — 
their meeting under the same roof being one of the in- 
explicable coincidences of life? All this rose instinc- 
tively to the surface of his mind ; but at bottom, scarcely 
recognized or admitted, was a latent apprehension of 
evil — the cold projected shadow of calamity which chills 
the spirit with the breath of prophecy. 

Anna, who had advanced half-way across the room, 
with a smile of delicious enjoyment of the situation upon 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


187 


her lips, and her eyes scanning his face, stopped short 
suddenly as she read something of its meaning. Beyond 
the first natural exclamation as he recognized her he had 
not yet spoken, and he still stood motionless, with his 
hand resting on the table beside him. 

“ Have you nothing to say,” she asked; “no welcome 
to give me?” Her tone was a compromise between ten- 
derness and indignation. 

“ I have nothing to say,” he answered, “ because I have 
no words to express my astonishment. What is the 
meaning of my finding you in this house? Explain, 
Anna.” 

“ Oh yes, I will explain,” she answered, struggling 
hard to control the passionate pain caused by his cold 
and peremptory manner, and with wrath gathering in 
her eyes ; “ I am in this house because I have no other 
to go to. My aunt has driven me from hers ; the Earles, 
your chosen friends, have shut their doors against me 
because I did not choose to take Adrian Earle as my 
husband. Tell me where a forlorn, unhappy creature as I 
am should turn for help and comfort, if not to the one 
friend who is bound to stand by her?” 

“ I do not in the least understand. What possible 
connection can subsist between you, Anna Trevelyan, 
and the woman of this house? Yet it is just conceiva- 
ble ” 

“ That there is some link of connection between Mrs. 
Baillie of Bruton Street and my old life in Florence! 
That perhaps she is, let us say, my foster-mother her- 
self, or at least kith or kin to her, or to old Assunta of 
the Lung’ Arno 1” 

The girl spoke with her passion let loose, and the 
ring of sarcastic scorn in her voice was of concentrated 
bitterness. “ Why do you pretend you do not under- 
stand me?” she demanded. 

He passed by the imputation as not worthy his 
attention. 

“ You mean that I am the friend bound to stand by 
you? Tell me, Anna, how you knew where to find me, 
or, knowing it, how even you could have been capable 
of the madness of seeking me out here? When did you ar- 
rive? Where have you spent the night?” 

He spoke calmly, but evidently holding himself under 
strong control, and he looked at the freshness of her 
face and aspect with an intense scrutiny in which her 


i83 


THE STORY OF PHILIP ME THU EH, 


passionate sense detected that admiration held not the 
smallest part. 

“ I have spent the night here, under this roof, where I 
spent the night before last also. I knew where to find 
you, because Mrs. Gibson gave me your address. She 
gave it to me when I went, mad with misery, to Methuen 
Place to find you the day you left town. I did not find 
you — you were gone to Earlescourt ; but I followed you 
to the station and took the same train as you did. Can 
you picture my situation when I got out at Waterloo, 
faint with hunger, without money or friends, and found 
you were not there?” 

“ And if you had found me there — what then?” 

She turned very pale, and the light of her face died 
out, but not the resolution of it. I should have put my 
hand into yours, and told you — what I tell you now — 
that the time was come to fulfil the pledges you gave to 
my dear father. They comforted him in death, and 
have given me courage to live my life until now.” 

“ The pledges which I gave to your father, Anna, have 
been fully redeemed. It was I who found you a natural 
asylum in your aunt’s house, and who made you known 
to a family whose friendship has enriched your life. A 
girl whom Adrian Earle loves talks at random when she 
speaks of her life as needing courage to endure. The 
question now to consider is how to ward off the conse- 
quences of your present indiscretion, which is more seri- 
ous than you seem to have the faculty to perceive.” 

He spoke with perfect decision and collectedness ; but 
that there was a strong undercurrent of excitement was 
evident enough from the paleness of his face, the dila- 
tion of his eyes, and the strenuous grasp of his fingers on 
the table by which he was still standing. Anna read the 
signs aright, and the passion of her disappointment 
broke down the last feeble barrier of her reserve. 

“You think I am an impulsive child,” she cried, 
“ ignorant of the ways of the world, and risking my 
reputation without knowing it! I will try and make 
you understand. What I have done I have done with 
my eyes open, to give me a stronger claim on what my 
heart is set. Are you so blind as not to see my mean- 
ing? Can you look into my face and need me to tell you 
the truth? I have loved you, Philip, from a little child 
— not, I think, as little children love — but with the germ 
of the feeling which has grown too strong now to be held 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 189 


down by any womanly shames and hesitations. See, I 
keep nothing back — my very soul is at your feet; I 
cannot live my life unless I live it with you.*' 

She made a movement of passionate deprecation to- 
ward him, but he drew back sharply from her extended 
hands. 

“ I will not touch you,” she said, with a cry of pain as 
if he had hurt her; “ but if you do not take me in your 
arms and comfort me, my misery and shame will be 
greater than I can bear.” 

“ And that is what 1 cannot do, though it cuts me to 
the heart to tell you so. Had I known this sooner — but 
it would have needed to have been very soon — I might 
have shaped my life differently — I think I would have 
been willing to do so. As it is, I have no longer power 
to direct it — as little power as will ” 

He stopped ; there was a confused sound of voices out- 
side the room, voices which both he and Anna recog- 
nized. 

He drew a breath of inward thanskgiving. 

“ I thank God,” he said solemnly, “ your friends are 
come to reclaim you ! Anna ” 

It was in his mind to make some appeal on his own 
behalf to her honor and candor, but the expression of her 
face as she turned it upon him checked the impulse. He 
recognized at once that he had a woman’s vengeance as 
well as a woman’s love to deal with, and that the odds 
in the coming contest would be heavily against him. 

At the same moment Mrs. Baillie opened the door, and 
announced : 

The Rev. Herbert and Mrs. Sylvestre.” 

She gave a little shriek as she saw Anna. 

“ On my soul and honor, madame,” she asseverated, 
addressing Mrs. Sylvestre, “ I did not know she was 
here ! Fie upon them both ! The artful hussy ; she has 
deceived me through thick and thin !” 

“ My good woman,” was the answer, “ I have no doubt 
you are quite innocent of any collusion in this deplorable 
business. Be so good now as to leave us alone with the 
young lady and Sir Philip Methuen.” 


13 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


190 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“ Oh ! must the cup that holds 
The sweetest vintage of the vine of life 
Taste bitter at the dregs ? Is there no story, 

No legend, no love passage which shall end 
Even as the bow which God has bent in heaven, 

O’er the sad waste of mortal histories, 

Promising respite to the rain of tears.” 

— M. Arnold. 

Perhaps it would have been difficult for any man to 
have been placed in a position of more cruel or complex 
difficulty than Philip Methuen. 

To vindicate his own honor was to deepen the con- 
demnation of the girl who was standing before them, 
erect and fearless but palpitating with emotion, like 
some beautiful wild animal brought suddenly to bay ; and 
to fail to do so was to compromise not merely his own 
happiness, but everything which he held most sacred — 
above all, the happiness of the sweet woman whom he 
loved better than life. 

He saw as he looked at Mrs. Sylvestre that she was 
strongly agitated, though doing her best to maintain her 
usual measured and imperturbable manner, and he met 
the gaze of her hard blue eyes with one of equal stead- 
fastness, touched by an involuntary sympathy. 

She colored, and drew herself up with offended dig- 
nity. 

“ I think you make a mistake in the object of your com- 
passion, Sir Philip Methuen,” she said. I can only con- 
gratulate ourselves that, coming upon you unawares, 
we have .sufficient proof of the situation to justify our 
demanding of you the only reparation in your power. 
But possibly this unhappy girl is already your wife?” 

“What are the injuries I am expected to repair?” he 
asked. 

Mrs. Sylvestre looked toward her husband. The 
vicar answered the appeal by an uneasy change of post- 
ure from one foot to another, and a nervous rubbing of 
his forehead with his open palm. When he did speak it 
was with a considerable measure of hesitation, for there 
was something in the young man’s look and manner 
which shook the strength of his conviction and anger. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


191 

“ It sometimes happens,” he said, “ that an honorable 
man may feel bound to repair injuries which have been 
unwittingly afflicted. Mrs. Sylvestre and I are in great 
distress ; our niece is known by all the neighborhood to 
have gone alone to your house two days ago to seek 
you, and not finding you there, to have followed you to 
the station and travelled up to town with you in the 
same train; to have thence proceeded direct to your 
lodgings, where she has passed the last two nights, and 
her aunt and myself find you in each other’s company 
early this morning. I put it to you, as a man of the 
world, whether in these circumstances there is more 
than one course open? If, as has been already suggested, 
she is not your wife, you will not mistake me when I say 
that I do not mean to go back to my parish until I, or 
some other duly qualified person, have made her such.” 

Anna, who up to this moment had maintained her 
attitude of defiance, uncertain what position her aunt 
and uncle would assume, suffered herself at this point to 
drop into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. 
The stricken attitude, the flame of color which dyed the 
pale cheeks beyond the sheltering fingers, did more to 
win the good vicar’s condonation than any words could 
have done. She herself had no thought of the effect of 
the action ; her whole soul was hanging on the words 
which Philip would answer. 

“ The statement you have just made is quite true, I 
believe, as regards facts,” he said; “but it is equally 
true that Anna and I have only met within the last half- 
hour since she left her home.” 

He looked toward her, but she neither spoke nor stirred. 

“ Unfortunately assertions of that kind need authenti- 
cation,” interposed Mrs. Sylvestre with a sneer; “ and I 
perceive that even my unhappy niece does not answer 
your appeal. Even if she had, it would have counted 
for nothing with me. A woman is scarcely expected to 
criminate herself.” 

She stopped a moment, and looked from one to the 
other with a curious expression. 

“You are well matched,” she pursued. “A girl who 
has been brought up to deny God and the divine rule of 
right and wrong, and you, Philip Methuen, a half-pledged 
priest, who have masked your real character under 
ostentatious devotion to a false faith until you had made 
quite sure of your worldly interests, and sent a credu- 


192 


THE STORY OF PHILIP ME THU EH, 


lous old man hoodwinked to the grave ! Still, unworthy 
as Lewis Trevelyan’s daughter is, we will save her from 
the shame which she has courted.” 

Once more, Philip turned his pale, set face toward 
Anna, who still sat in the same crouching posture with 
her head bowed between her hands. 

“ Have you no instinct of womanhood to defend your- 
self from imputations such as these,” he asked slowly; 
“ even if my honor is of no account to you?” 

Then Anna dropped her hands and lifted up her white, 
despairing face. “ What does it matter?” she answered. 
“ Nothing that I can say or do now will wipe out this 
disgrace. It is quite true that you have deceived me, 
Philip, whether you meant it or not. If you do not be- 
long to me, I have always believed that you did, and you 
have betrayed my faith in you and spoiled my life all the 
same. What do I care as to what becomes of me now?” 

Instinctively he put his hand before his eyes ; partly 
to hide the despair which gripped his heartstrings, partly 
to avoid the malicious smile with which Mrs. Sylvestre 
continued to gaze at him. 

There are seme forces so relentless that no man can 
resist them successfully. Anna, too, watched him for a 
moment, and then, moved by a new impulse, went close 
up to her aunt as if to challenge her attention. 

“ You have always hated me,” she said; “ but you are 
not false, and I will tell you the truth. I see he despises 
me because I have not spoken before, but it will make 
no difference. It is exactly as he says. I have not seen 
him since I left your house until just before you arrived. 
But do you think that even such a girl as I am would 
have been mad enough to do what I have done if she 
had not felt sure that the man for whom she risked her 
reputation wanted her for his wife? I want you to be- 
lieve this for my dear father's sake. Philip Methuen 
promised him when he was dying to take care of me as 
long as he lived ; when he was dead he took me in his 
arms and kissed and comforted me. ‘I love you dearly 
— love me a little, ’ he said. It seemed to me all that 
meant one thing only ; and I felt so sure of this, that I was 
content to wait his own time and submit to his ways. 
So when your treatment drove me out of your house, I 
came direct to him to claim the home I thought was 
ready for me — I knew his mourning was over — I be- 
lieved he cared for me. You see, don’t you? What 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


193 


was there to wait for?” Her voice broke as she ended, 
and she strained her clasped hands together, as if in the 
effort to keep down her sobs. Mr. Sylvestre, glancing 
from her pale troubled face to Philip’s, felt his heart 
harden against him. 

“ What my niece has just now told us,” he said stiffly, 
“ exonerates you from participation in her imprudence, 
but increases tenfold her claims upon your honor. Give 
us the assurance we want, and we will withdraw with 
her to our own hotel until arrangements can be made 
for the marriage. You will agree with me that it should 
not be postponed beyond to-morrow. ’ 

It cannot be. I am unable to marry Anna Trevelyan. 
It sounds cruel and unmanly to say it, but the thing is 
impossible.” 

He spoke as a man under torture might be supposed to 
speak, and his face looked as if it had been cut out of 
stone. 

“ I am this girl’s natural guardian. Sir Philip Methuen,” 
said the vicar, hotly ; “ and if you persist in your re- 
fusal, I will do my poor best to have your dishonor 
known through the length and breadth of the county. 
No other woman shall usurp my niece’s place, if words 
can blast your chances. Do I offer you what is not 
worth having? Any man might be proud to take what 
you contemn. It cuts me to the heart to see such a girl 
rejected.” 

And then Mrs. Sylvestre ’s clear, cold voice attacked 
his ears. 

“ Let me offer you another consideration,” she said. 
For the sake of our daughters and our own position in 
Skeffington, it is morally impossible that Anna Trevel- 
yan can ever live under our roof again — she is already 
a byword in every cottage and farm-house in the parish. 
Facts are known, Philip Methuen, without their extenu- 
ating circumstances — that is, if a girl’s indecent passion 
can be called an extenuation. The question remains. 
What is to become of her? Separated from her friends, 
and repudiated by you, she will be a mark for the world’s 
scorn. Even Lewis Trevelyan himself would scarcely 
be satisfied with such an outcome of your pledges of 
service.” 

“ I will so provide for her honor and safety that no 
breath of scandal shall touch her ; but, I repeat it, I can- 
not marry her. My life is not at my own sacrilege, and 


f94 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


such a marriage would be an outrage and a sacrifice far 
greater than the evil it tried to avert. There are some 
sacrifices which it would be infamous to make.” 

” Then,” said Mrs. Sylvestre rising, “ we will consider 
the last word is spoken, and will leave her to your tender 
mercies. It is only under the one condition that we take 
Anna away with us, and that you tell us is impossible. 
Pray lose no time in carrying out your programme for 
re-establishing her good name. I shall be curious to see 
how it will be done. For our part, we have tried our 
utmost for her, and — failed.” 

” My dear,” said the vicar nervously, “ you cannot, of 
course, mean exactly what you say. It is out of the 
question that we can go away and leave Anna here ; if 
she does not come with us, we must at least find her 
some respectable shelter. Do you suppose she would 
consent to remain?” 

“ I would consent,” said Anna wearily, “ for what 
would it matter, if I am disgraced already? But Mrs. 
Baillie would turn me out of doors as soon as you are 
gone. I do not think she will let Philip Methuen stay 
here either.” 

She looked toward him as she pronounced the be- 
loved name, and his aspect so wrought upon her that it 
produced a sudden revulsion of feeling. 

Withacr}’’ of distress she cleared the distance between 
them, and threw herself at his feet. 

Forgive me !” — and the passionate caressing diminu- 
tives of her Tuscan tongue flowed from her lips as she 
clung about his knees — ” I did not know my love would 
break your heart ! Mother of God !” she wailed, as he 
tried to disengage himself from her embrace. ” Do you 
hate me Philip? Ah, you are cruel — you hurt my 
hands !” 

The vicar came forward, with tears in his eyes, to lift 
her from the floor. 

“ Have you a man’s heart within your breast, and can 
treat a woman thus?” he demanded sternly, as he put 
his arms about the girl. 

“I do not know,” was the answer; and then after a 
brief pause he added : 

“ Take her away with you !” 

” You mean — this is, I am to understand ” 

The vicar paused, wondering if the young man, whose 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


195 


face expressed nothing but a dumb agony of pain, knew 
the meaning of what he was saying. 

Mrs. Sylvestre showed less forbearance. 

“ My husband is unwilling that there should be any 
mistake. If we take Anna Trevelyan away with us at 
your request, it is on the distinct understanding that 
you consent to make her your wife — and that with as 
little delay as possible.” 

Philip bowed his head mechanically. 

“ To-morrow? I think the necessary matters could be 
arranged in time ” 

“ Not to-morrow, nor next day. I will say Saturday, 
and make what arrangements you please.” 

There was a pause of hesitation. Philip looked from 
the one to the other quickly. 

“ I give you my word of honor — I will marry Anna 
Trevelyan on Saturday. Do not consider expense, if 
money will facilitate matters. Also, leave me your 
address and communicate with me here — but by letter 
only.” 

The vicar still regarded him with anxious attention, 
but the other had rallied his strength. 

“ You do not trust me?” he asked, and drawing off a 
plain signet-ring which Mr. Sylvestre recognized as one 
habitually worn by the late Sir Giles Methuen, he crossed 
over to where Anna stood, and slipped it upon her wed- 
ding-finger. 

“This ring bears the motto of our house,” he said; 
“ you may take it as a pledge of my good faith. For the 
rest, you will not wonder if I ask you to leave me alone, 
and — give some explanation to the woman of the house.” 

He had not looked at Anna during this little ceremony ; 
but the girl caught both his hands in her passionate 
grasp, and covered them with her kisses and her tears. 

“ Spare us that !” said her aunt sternly, and drew her 
out of the room. 


196 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Now on the snmmit of Love’s topmost peak 
Kiss we and part ; no further can we go: 

And better death than we from high to low 
Should dwindle, or decline from strong to weak. 

. . . Heaven of my Earth ! one more celestial kiss, 

Then down by separate pathways to the vale.” 

—Alfred Austin. 

“ No exile’s dream was half so sad, 

Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn.” 

— M. Arnold. 

Philip Methuen remained standing as they had left 
him in the middle of the room until the sound of their 
voices was silent, and he heard the house door shut 
upon them. Then he walked deliberately toward a 
chair, and sat down with the intention of facing his 
calamity and deciding on his plan of action. But even 
his strong and disciplined will refused to obey the call. 
For more than an hour he sat with folded^arms and eyes 
fixed on the ground, as motionless as if life had already 
left him, and with no other consciousness but of anguish 
so extreme that it was like the thrust of some relentless 
sword piercing even to the dividing of the joints and 
marrow. 

There is perhaps one thing harder than the crucifixion 
of the flesh with its affections and lusts — namely, the 
crucifixion of the divine and the true ; and hardest of all 
is it to know that what we endure we inflict, and that 
the pang which rends our own soul destroys the happi- 
ness of another for whom it is a poor thing to say we 
would have laid down our life. 

There is a spirit of devotion to high and noble causes 
which commends itself at once to the magnificent 
chivalry of great natures ; but to sacrifice the best for 
the worst, the good for the evil, the noble for the base, 
almost exceeds the limits of human endurance, and 
makes of the martyrdom of saint or patriot a mere 
pageant and self-gratification. 

As the man sat, living in advance the moments that 
were lying in wait for him, like some wretch extended 
on the rack and in suspense of the turn of the wheel, the 
lines of his face hardened, and the fine charm and bloom 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 197 

of its beauty passed out of it forever. The gentleness 
which made children confide in him, and the noble 
sweetness which touched every woman’s heart who 
looked at him, were scorched and consumed in the blast 
of that terrible furnace : the iron had entered his soul, 
and was subduing it to its own nature. 

Even the stimulus and consolations of religion were 
denied him. The deed he was about to do was unholy 
and sacrilegious ; what love had made sacred and divine 
was become infamous and repulsive. The convictions 
and influences of his priestly training, which had yielded 
to the solvent of a generous passion, reasserted their 
old power. He abhorred the idea of marriage with 
Anna Trevelyan: it was not martyrdom that was de- 
manded of him, but a life of ignominy and degradation, 
from which God Himself would hide His face. 

He was aroused by a knock at the door of his room ; it 
had been repeated before, but he had not heard it. Mrs. 
Baillie was anxious to know if Sir Philip Methuen would 
have his breakfast served. The answer was in the neg- 
ative, through the closed and locked door, and the woman 
missed, with a feeling of confused surprise, the gra- 
ciousness of manner which had won her good-will the 
night before. 

Thus recalled to the details of life and business, Methu- 
en’s eyes fell on the papers on which he had been em- 
ployed when Anna Trevelyan had come in, and he 
remembered that he had been engaged to meet Lord 
Sainsbury at his hotel by noon that day. It was long 
past that hour, but he would go ; or was it worth while 
to go? Did the claims of friendship hold? Was duty still 
to be influential over his maimed and demoralized life? 
Also, could he give his mind to literary discussion un- 
der a fastidious author’s exigent demands, and answer 
the claims of physical pain and sickness, with the knowl- 
edge before him that ere the sun set he must stand face 
to face with Honor Aylmer, and exhibit to her her 
blessedness torn up by the roots? Well, he could put it 
to the test. 

A few minutes* rapid walking brought him to the 
hotel. As he entered Lord Sainsbury’s room, he per- 
ceived such signs of pain and weariness on the worn face 
as suggested a sleepless night, and perhaps patience 
exhausted by his own delay, and the instinct of pity 
slowly stirred within him. 


iqS the story of PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ I am sorry to be so late. I have been unavoidably 
detained, and have now only an hour at your lordship’s 
service. Will that be enough for what we need to 
arrange?” 

“ It will not. I cannot talk within the fetters of an 
hour. What is wrong, Methuen?” 

Lord Sainsbury looked at him fixedly. Then he rose, 
which cost him an effort, and followed Philip to the 
window, to which he had turned. 

He laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder. 

“ If there is one man to whom you need not hesitate to 
speak the truth,” he said, '‘it is surely to him with 
whom you have gone down almost into the valley of the 
shadow of death. It is something that has cut very 
deep, I see. It is scarcely possible, when I remember 
what you told me last night, that anything can have 
come between you and the woman you love?” 

“ It is possible. I have lost her, but through no fault 
of hers or mine. Ask me no more questions — I cannot 
answer them.” 

The tone was hard and unresponsive, and he avoided 
meeting the eyes which he knew were fixed upon his 
face. 

“ Is the misfortune irremediable, and yet so sudden? 
When we parted yesterday ” 

Philip endured the stab without flinching, but his 
stoicism did not deceive the other ; he forbore to go on. 

After a few moments’ pause, he asked: “There is, 
then, nothing I can do for you?” 

“ Yes ; treat me as you did yesterday. I am afraid 
you have not slept well, and I am still of the same opin- 
ion about cancelling the last chapter of your book. Why 
defend a policy which has not been impugned, and 
which you would pursue again in like circumstances? 
I read it over once more still more carefully after I left 
you last night.” 

Lord Sainsbury could scarcely have given his friend a 
greater proof of his love and confidence than by accept- 
ing the line indicated, and taking up the discussion of 
his literary and personal affairs at the point where they 
had been left the day before. 

When the hour was up, Methuen rose. 

“ Your sister joins you this evening, and to-morrow 
you start for Mentone? My best wishes go with your 
lordship.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 199 

It was all he could say, for the eager eyes which met 
his were softened almost to tears. 

“You are resolved to trust nothing to my friendship, 
Methuen?” 

“ Mention the name and address of some priest whom 
I can trust. I am to be married on Saturday.” 

The two men looked steadily at each other, and then 
the elder said, with solemn earnestness : “ Is this a 
righteous solution of the difficulty? Marriage is an in- 
destructible bond.” 

“ I know it ; righteousness and I have parted, but — 
there is no alternative.” 

“ I refuse to believe it ; you have not had time enough 
to deliberate.” 

“ As much time as when a man is called upon to choose 
between the surrender of his honor and his life. I was 
going to say I had given up the last ; but in some cases 
one is obliged to part with both — that is mine.” 

He stopped, and then added, with a supreme effort : 
“ I am not the same man that I was yesterday, and even 
your sympathy wounds rather than heals. Let me go.” 

A few hours later he was standing in one of the wide 
bay-windows of the drawing-room at Earlescourt waiting 
for Honor Aylmer. He had sent a telegram in advance, 
asking to see her alone, and giving some hint of misfort- 
une ; he dreaded for the blow to fall without any prep- 
aration. There were only one or two candles lighted 
in the stately room ; but a large fire scattered warmth 
and brightness around, giving fantastic effects of fluctuat- 
ing flame and shadow. The blinds and curtains were 
still undrawn, and the outlines of the trees and shrubs 
could be discerned in the faint gleam of the crescent 
moon. 

Philip Methuen stood and gazed out into the darkness, 
seeing nothing but the projection of his own misery, 
and that meant, at this moment, the sense of the misery 
he was about to inflict. He was, as he had been through- 
out the day, outwardly composed ; but this self-repres- 
sion was so severe and protracted that he dreaded lest 
his strength should fail him in the moment of uttermost 
emergency. He would shorten the interview as much 
as in him lay : instinct and reason combine to make 
swift the stroke by which we save our honor and slay a 
life dearer than our own. 

He heard the door open, and felt that Honor had en- 


200 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


tered the room ; but it was a moment before he had cour- 
age enough to turn round. She came toward him 
quickly, with eyes raised to meet his own, full of ten- 
derness and trust, and both hands extended. In the pres- 
ence of calamity, womanly shynesses and reserves were 
out of place. She wore a soft silk gown of the mellow 
tint of old ivory, and the ends of the sash round her 
waist were deeply embroidered and fringed with gold 
thread. There was a distinction in the simple yet beau- 
tiful costume, which suited well with the sweet dignity 
of her tall and lithe figure, and the loveliness of the face 
eager to discover and greet her lover. 

Philip, after a moment’s hesitation, came forward and 
met her in the middle of the room, taking both her out- 
stretched hands in his. They looked into each other’s 
faces without speaking; but every trace of color ebbed 
from Honor’s cheeks and lips as she read the awful sor- 
row of his gaze. 

“ Tell me what has happened,” she whispered, almost 
in the tone we adopt in the chamber of death. ” I can 
conceive of no misfortune that can part us — say it is not 
that !” 

“ It is that, or it would not be misfortune.” 

And then, in compassion to the agony of suspense she 
forbore, for his sake, to express, but which he read in 
every line of her drooping face and figure, he forced 
himself to say, still holding her hands firmly in his : 

“ I have broken the bond between us, and pledged my- 
self to marry — Anna Trevelyan.” 

He had been about to add on Saturday, but reflection 
came in time to enable him to spare her this additional 
blow. 

Honor uttered a low suppressed cry. Incredible as 
the announcement might have appeared to some, it 
reached her ears with something of the effect of a dim 
foreboding realized. One flash of backward thought 
helped her comprehension, although it only served to 
add intensity to her distress. The flight of Anna 
Trevelyan from her home was a fact known far and 
wide. But even in the first moment of sharp endurance 
her instinctive feeling was less that of self-pity than of 
passionate sympathy. The expression that met Philip’s 
sombre and concentrated gaze was once of such abound- 
ing tenderness and compassion that it went near to 
break down his fortitude. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


201 


He dropped her hands, and turned from her to avoid 
what he could not endure. 

Honor’s instinct was to follow him, but she forbore, 
and said, standing where he had left her : 

“ Tell me everything that it is necessary for me to 
know, and trust my love to bear it. I am made for 
calamity, Philip. Besides, if this be so, what is my pain 
to yours?” 

“ Your pain,” he repeated, “ your pain ! It is that which 
will haunt me night and day, and turn endurance itself 
into an infamy. Have mercy upon me. Honor ! Anger 
and reproaches would be less cruel ” 

“ Then I will reproach you ; were there no means of 
escape?” 

But as she asked the question — it was so charged with 
misery — her voice broke, and the sound of her weeping 
reached his ears. He had dreaded her tears as the one 
thing his courage would not be able to sustain, and in 
effect the moment held within it the very bitterness of 
death. Suddenly turning toward her, he snatched her 
into his arms and strained her against his breast, with a 
passion which left her faint and breathless. 

“My God!” he said.“ Can I forego? We are pledged 
to each other by ties which it is impiety to break. Honor, 
I am not yet hers ; must I do this accursed thing? For- 
bid it, and I am bound to obey.” 

She saw his terrible suffering, and postponed hers by 
an instinct of her nature. 

“ Let me judge,” she said, softly; “ and tell me every- 
thing, that I may judge.” 

He obeyed her touch mechanically, and sat down on a 
couch beside her, leaning forward with his elbows on 
his knees and his hands covering his face. His voiceless 
despair pierced her soul ; and when after a time he lifted 
up his head and looked at her, there was that in his 
changed aspect alone which carried with it a weight of 
woe. Seldom have a few hours worked more havoc in 
a human face. The lines and curves which had gone 
to produce the expression of assured serenity and sweet- 
ness had disappeared ; the brow had taken the deep ver- 
tical furrow of intolerable pain; the eyes seemed to 
scorch where they fell, and the mouth was hard and set. 
A sudden flash of memory recalled him to her as she 
had seen him four years ago at the foot of the Earles- 
court staircase, when he had suggested Spenser’s Chris- 


203 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


tian knight to her mind, and the contrast brought with it 
a pang of agony. He had been grave and in trouble 
then ; but that was a sorrow which purged and ennobled, 
having the divine element of renunciation in it — this the 
grip of an irremediable wrong, which degrades while it 
tortures. 

“ Let me hold your hand,” he said, “ that I may feel if 
you shrink from me. I am not guilty, I suppose, but I 
have all the shame and pain of guilt.” 

And then, in direct abrupt phrases, he told his burn- 
ing story, without extenuation and without reproach; 
and as Honor listened to details which were the knell of 
her own happiness, her passion of love and sympathy 
quickened, and she strained the hand which held hers 
against her heart. 

When he had done, he said : “ It is an insult to ask 
you whether I was right or wrong. You trusted me 
with your happiness, and I have betrayed you. It is a 
poor excuse that it was under such cruel pressure as 
turns the victim on the rack into a liar and a perjurer.” 

He looked down upon the pale, tender, noble face 
raised toward his own, and it needed all the strength of 
the consideration that the symptoms of his own distress 
aggravated hers, to enable him to suppress a groan of 
anguish. He put her gently from him, and, rising ab- 
ruptly, turned again to the unsheltered window. 

“ I will go now,” he said, after a pause. “ I have dealt 
my blow, and have no power of healing. In the future 
it will be well that we should never meet.” 

“ Never meet !” she repeated. “ You take away my last 
hope. To have helped you in your misery would have 
been some mitigation of mine.” 

“ You could not have helped me,” he answered sternly. 
'' Every time I saw your face and heard your voice 
would have rendered hers more hateful. The only com- 
fort you can give me is to let me know that — I have not 
spoiled your life. I shall live mine with the hourly 
prayer that the time may be hastened when you will 
forget that you ever loved me. What was my glory 
yesterday is the millstone that sinks me to the bottom- 
less abyss to-day.” 

The tone in which he said this drew her irresistibly to 
his side again ; it was sharp with the accent of unendur- 
able pain. 

” Philip,” she cried, seizing his reluctant hand in pas- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


203 


sionate appeal, “ you ask of me more than I can do or 
God requires! You must not insist on separating your- 
self from me. Will you deny me the help that would 
come from seeing how you live your life.^” 

“ Not if I thought it would help you; but I shall live 
m}^ life as the galley-slave lives his — not escaping from 
it because chained to the oar.” 

“It seems so now,” she said, breathlessly, for the as- 
pect of the averted face was almost more than she could 
bear ; “ but you will not be long held under such a yoke 
as that. You belong to the men who forge their spirit- 
ual weapons out of suffering. God, who knows the 
secrets of all hearts, has perhaps marked out these lines 
of sharp denial and daily martyrdom instead of those you 
would have chosen for yourself, and — you will not be 
unworthy of your vocation, Philip?” 

“ Sweet saint !” he answered, and put her hand rever- 
ently to his lips ; but the thought in his own mind was 
that divine service cannot be based on the violation of 
all which he held most sacred. 

“ Bear with one word more,” she added; “ it may help 
you a little to remember that — Anna did not know the 
wrong she was doing us.” 

“ I remember it thankfully ; neither my heart nor yours 
will be given to her for prey, but — you must not plead 
for her, Honor.” 

Then silence fell between them, he still retaining the 
hand he had taken, and she leaning against his shoulder. 
He longed with strenuous desire to cut short an inter- 
view which had exhausted him more even than he had 
feared ; but he knew that the tender woman clinging to 
his side was still loath to let him go. Presently he said, 
more gently than he had spoken before : 

“ There is some comfort which you will not begrudge 
me, Honor, in the thought that our engagement is not 
generally known ; it would have distressed me greatly 
if your name had been publicly associated with mine. 
Miss Earle and Oliver must keep our secret.” 

“ But you will send some message to Oliver?” she 
urged. 

He shook his head. “ All that will be outside my life 
in the future. Oliver must draw his own conclusions.” 

Then he drew her more closely toward him, and bend- 
ing over her, gazed into her sweet face with a concen- 
trated yearning. He gave no other expression to the 


204 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

despair which filled his heart as they thus exchanged 
their speechless farewell. He kissed her once or twice 
on lips and brow, but with a chastened tenderness, as if 
passion were exhausted. 

“Forgive me; I shall never kiss you anymore; kiss 
me again and yet again. Honor — my pure saint, my own 
unwedded wife ! I thank God my uncle did not live to 
see this day !” 

He released her from his embrace, and had turned to 
leave the room when the door was sharply opened, and 
Miss Earle advanced toward them. She looked from 
him to Honor with keen, suspicious glances. 

“Forgive me,” she said, “if I am unwelcome; but I 
could not stay longer away when I knew that you were 
the bearer of bad tidings to my beloved daughter. What 
is wrong. Sir Philip?” 

“ You have every right to inquire,” he said. “ I am pre- 
pared to explain, but it must be after Honor has left the 
room.” 

“ Let me stay,” she pleaded — “ I can make it a little 
easier for you ;” but he answered her by a glance of res- 
olute denial, opening the door for her departure, and 
closing it again quietly after her. 

“We had bidden each other farewell before you en- 
tered,” he explained to Miss Earle. “ I am now at your 
service. Allow me to do that for you.” 

We have said that the room was but dimly lighted. 
Miss Earle had taken up a taper, and was applying it 
with quick, angry movements to the chandelier above 
her head. She could not read his face as she wished. 

“ Is that enough?” turning toward her in the full blaze 
of the illumination, and meeting her gaze steadily, in 
spite of the inward recoil of his whole nature from the 
scene about to be forced upon him. 

She looked at him with a feeling of stupefaction ; a 
vague idea occurred to her that he had been guilty of 
some sudden crime. What else could have happened to 
change him in so brief an interval? 

His next words seemed to give color to her suspicion. 

“ Will you permit me to give you my explanation by 
letter?” he asked. 

He was a strong man both in body and mind ; but the 
equipoise of the finest organizations can only resist the 
stress of circumstance up to a certain point, and he had 
tasted no -food that day, though he was scarcely con- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 205 

scious of the fact. He was, however, painfully con- 
scious of a failure of power, which it needed a desper- 
ate effort to resist successfully ; also, he had not prepared 
himself for this repetition of his punishment. 

“ Pardon me,” she said coldly, ” I cannot consent to 
wait. Your proposal means in effect that my poor 
Honor should tell your story instead of you. That 
would not be fair.” 

” No,” he said, ” that would not be fair. I am come to- 
day to get Honor’s consent to break our engagement — 
or rather, that is not absolutely true, I have already 
broken it, and came to tell her so. The thing is with- 
out appeal.” 

His hard, repellant manner had returned, and increased 
her indignation and bewilderment. 

“ Explain !” she demanded haughtily. “ But, whatever 
the cause, I will never forgive the man who has ruined 
Honor’s life. Also, there are others better qualified 
than I to call you to account for an injury you scarcely 
condescend to recognize.” 

“ Hear what I have to say, and judge me afterward,” 
he answered. And then once more he told his miserable 
story,- with the same conciseness as before, and with 
scarcely less pain and repugnance. 

When he had done. Miss Earle, who had listened not 
without angry and imperative interruption, said harshly : 

“ Do you expect that I shall justify your conduct, or 
agree that it is necessary to sacrifice Honor in order to 
preserve the reputation of an infamous girl like Anna 
Trevelyan? The matter is not so easily arranged as you 
seem to imagine. I have always mistrusted you. Sir 
Philip — you were too good to be true. How do I know 
you have not played us false? You were free till you 
chose to be bound — the girl has always cared for you. 
If you suffer” — she glanced keenly at him — ” I have no 
pity for you. I wish you could add Honor’s pain to your 
own !” 

“ Such wishes are vain,” he said coldly, “and it has 
ceased to be a matter of consequence to me in what light 
you view my character or my conduct. I have told you 
the truth; but you will, of course, accept or reject it at 
your discretion, and take what action you think right in 
the matter. Only — if you have any divine charity in 
your soul — I appeal to it not to betray to any other per- 
son that Miss Aylmer and I have been engaged. Also, 


206 


THE STORY OE PHILIP METHUEN, 


I trust to the honor you have not pledged to keep secret 
these circumstances I have just related to you.” 

“ I refuse to give any such pledges ; it is effrontery to 
demand them.” 

“ I do not demand,” he answered, “ but solicit, and for 

the sake of her we both love. You wilh consider ” 

he stopped. “ Perhaps it is not necessary to say any 
more. Have I your permission to take my leave.^” 

Her woman’s heart yielded a little. 

“ Not till you have taken some refreshment,” she said, 
preserving the ice of her tone while her eyes softened. 
” Honor in her trouble has forgotten the duties of a host- 
ess — let me order something to be served for you in the 
breakfast-room.” 

I could not eat,” he answered; but I am thankful to 
take away with me the recollection of your goodness.” 

Five minutes later he was driving back to Tri Chester 
in the hack-fly which had brought him from the station. 

He spent the night at the newly-erected meagre Rail- 
way Inn, and took the first train to town on the follow- 
ing morning. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

So long” as the world contains us both, 

Me the loving and you the loth, 

While the one eludes must the other pursue. 

My life is a fault at last, I fear: 

It seems too much like a fate indeed! 

Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.’^ 

— R. Browning. 

Mr. and Mrs. Sylvestre had taken up their quarters 
at HaxelPs Hotel, as a judicious compromise between 
the West End and the City, and thither they withdrew 
with Anna. The interval that was to elapse before the 
Saturda^T- morning which was to relieve Mrs. Sylvestre 
of a charge reluctantly accepted and grudgingly ful- 
filled, dragged heavily for all the parties concerned. 

Mr. Sylvestre was, of course, free to employ himself 
about town as well as a country parson is able to do at 
the deadest season of the year, and he had also the not 
altogether disagreeable responsibility of making the 
necessary arrangements for the wedding. An old col- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 207 

lege friend happened to be the incumbent of the neigh- 
boring church of St. Barnabas, and had readily agreed 
to perform the ceremony and give any advice or assist- 
ance in his power. Mr. Sylvestre had oifered what he 
considered a very plausible explanation of the haste and 
privacy of the marriage ; but he had not succeeded in 
disabusing his friend’s mind of a certain amount of sus- 
picion, mixed with a still larger measure of curiosity. 

The Rev. Edward Dormer had naturally considered it 
his duty to call upon Mrs. Sylvestre and her niece, but 
had been disappointed in the object he had in view. 
Anna was not allowed to be seen, being kept in strict 
seclusion by her aunt, with the exception of a daily con- 
stitutional in the Temple Gardens. An old bencher, 
who was one of Mrs. Sylvestre ’s few influential friends, 
had placed the key of this sacred enclosure at her dis- 
posal, as well as his opinion and advice in respect to the 
legal aspect of the marriage now impending. This gen- 
tleman had asked her if no settlements had been made 
on her niece by Sir Philip Methuen, and evidently re- 
ceived her negative as a proof of gross negligence on the 
part of the girl’s friends, and lack of proper behavior on 
that of the bridegroom ; but Mrs. Sylvestre silenced his 
suggestions with decision. It was a matter of no con- 
sequence to her that Anna would be entirely dependent 
on the liberality of her future husband, or indeed 
whether that husband would be liberal or otherwise; 
while the prospect of any postponement of the marriage 
filled her with anxiety and apprehension. 

It would perhaps be wrong to say that she rejoiced in 
the circumstances which were to find their climax in 
this forced union; but at least the result had so much 
that was consolatory in it as to reduce her regret to a 
minimum. 

To see Anna Trevelyan the wife of Sir Philip Methuen 
was not indeed equal to the greater and far more com- 
fortable distinction which Adrian Earle had offered 
her, and was attended by drawbacks of a very substan- 
tial kind ; but it was a great deal better than she had 
ever -ventured to expect, and relieved her of an odious 
responsibility. Of course she would not be able to per- 
mit any friendly intercourse between the two families ; 
but as regarded any conscientious scruples on the girl’s 
own account, she naturally argued that Anna’s reputa- 
tion must take precedence even of her spiritual welfare, 


2o8 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


and had almost entertained a doubt whether the Catholic 
idolatry itself might not be better than sheer infidelity. 

Anna passed these days for the most part in the soli- 
tude of her dreary bedchamber. She was neither sub- 
missive nor recalcitrant, neither humbled nor defiant — 
she lived in a condition of suspense rendered endurable 
by deliberate realistic dreaming. 

She mapped out with curious precision the way in 
which she would spend her time at Methuen Place, and 
how she would reopen and decorate the old family house 
in South Audley Street, disused for half a generation — 
the alterations she would make, the society she would 
organize, the effect she would produce by her own brill- 
iant personality. She would make friends again with 
Earlescourt (her latent suspicion and jealousy of Honor 
Aylmer lending only zest to the prospect), and dazzle 
them with the practical fulfilment of the hopes and am- 
bitions she had often discussed under that roof. They 
would see that Anna Trevelyan, arrogant as they 
thought her, had not rated her value too high — Sir Philip 
Methuen had indorsed the estimate. The man whom 
they all admired had chosen her for his wife. 

Chosen ! It may be asked whether the girl were so 
blind and insensate as not to be able to understand the 
meaning of the miserable scene in which she had just 
borne a part — whether the signs of indifference, not to 
say of repugnance and the sharp anguish of coercion had 
not been sutficiently manifest? 

For all this Anna Trevelyan had one inclusive expla- 
nation — it was the ascetic devotion of the priest to the 
rule of celibacy. He did not love her — no! — but he 
thought love a weakness and marriage almost a crime, 
and her ardor offended him because his manhood was 
still under a yoke. But this was simply a prejudice of 
education, that was to yield, like the ice-crowned moun- 
tain-tops under the heat of summer suns, to the breath 
of her passion. 

That he did not love Honor Aylmer was proved to hef 
satisfaction by the bare fact of his yielding to the press- 
ure put upon him ; had he done so, she argued (for we 
all reason self-outward), he would have refused to yield. 

If a certain recoil is felt from this condition of mind 
as unwomanly and unnatural, it should be remembered 
that the warm blood of the South flowed in her veins ; 
that where no spiritual faith exists self-gratification is apt 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


209 


to become at once the creed and goal of life and, in 
fuller extenuation, that the love had grown from child- 
hood with her growth, and retained something of the 
artlessness and familiarity of the past with the tumult 
and intemperance of the present. 

Mrs. Sylvestre had been greatly exercised in mind in 
respect to Anna’s trousseau, or rather of the entire defi- 
ciency of such provision. She met the difficulty by tel- 
egraphing to her daughters to forward to Haxell’s Hotel 
the best part of their cousin’s wardrobe, and by deciding 
that a certain travelling suit which it contained would 
answer fairly for the marriage ceremony. 

She had not the least idea what Methuen’s plans 
would be after he and Anna were man and wife, but he 
was scarcely likely to propose a return to Bruton Street. 
And in case of going home to Skeffington or of a more 
distant journey, it would be well to have the bride prop- 
erly equipped. 

She st41l nourished a secret mistrust, as perhaps we all 
have a tendency to do when the thing expected seems 
too good to be true, and which was strengthened by her 
fundamental belief that subterfuge and falsehood were 
held as very venial sins by men of his persuasion. Mr. 
Sylvestre, contrary to agreement, had called once or 
twice in Bruton Street to discuss this point or that with 
the distinguished principal, as he called Methuen with 
mild jocularity, but on none of these occasions had he 
been admitted. “ Sir Philip Methuen was out,” was the 
invariable answer. 

Her anxieties were, however, put at rest by a note re- 
ceived from him late on Friday evening, accepting all 
Mr. Sylvestre’s arrangements, and stating that he would 
be in St. Barnabas’ Church at the hour appointed. 

No human satisfaction, however, is perfect, and there 
was a clause in the letter which almost overthrew Mrs. 
Sylvestre’s equilibrium. 

I propose that the marriage ceremony shall be im- 
mediately repeated at the Catholic chapel in 

Street.” 

“ Does he conceive,” she demanded, '' that we shall 
compromise ourselves to the extent of assisting at an 
idolatrous rite.^ Why, I believe they speak of marriage 
as a sacrament !” 

She herself spoke as if even that degree of acquaint- 
ance with the dogmas of a noxious superstition was 


210 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


almost more than could be justified in a right-minded 
person. 

“ My dear,” replied the vicar, quietly, “ our niece will 
be quite enough married for you and me by my good 
friend Mr. Dormer and myself — she will then be Sir 
Philip Methuen’s wife as hard and fast as the laws of 
England can make her ; but he does not recognize our 
orders, and I hold it as a point of honorable feeling that 
he is willing to make the union binding from his own 
point of view. You would wish him to consider himself 
her husband? It will simply be a bowing down in the 
house of Rimmon !” 

At ten o’clock on the following morning Mrs. Sylvestre 
and Anna entered St. Barnabas’ Church. The vicar 
had preceded them some time before, as he was to take 
part of the service, and had arranged to breakfast with 
his friend. 

The persistent rain was still falling, and the church, 
closed all the week, looked more like an opened tomb 
than a sacred place of resort. The vacancy and dreari- 
ness were increased by the week-day aspect of inverted 
cushions, and linen cloths over the more elaborate 
pieces of the ecclesiastical furniture. 

The altar itself had not been uncovered ; fine holland 
concealed its costly drapery, recently presented by a 
wealthy parishioner. Why should it have been untime- 
ously disclosed before the decency of Sunday observance 
made it necessary — its suggestive services would not 
be called into requisition on this occasion? 

Anna vras in a mood of controlled but intense excite- 
ment. A little more and her hand would be taken by 
the man to walk by whose side through life was the 
prayer of her soul, and no power could prevail hereafter 
to force them asunder. Was he there? 

Her eager eyes scanned the vicinity of the altar with 
searching scrutiny ; but almost before she realized her 
disappointment, he stepped out of a side pew, deep in 
the shadow of a heavy pillar, and came forward to greet 
them. He was accompanied by a friend, whose phys- 
iognomy and garb at once announced him as a Roman 
Catholic priest, and upon whose fine, sharply-cut face 
Mrs. Sylvestre gazed with haughty misgiving. At the 
same moment a few stragglers, attracted by the open 
door and the waiting cabs outside, sauntered into the 
church. The two clergymen entered from the vestry. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


2II 


and after a short whispered colloquy, they came for- 
ward to the communion-rails and signified their readi- 
ness to begin the service. 

Philip placed himself on the right hand of the chancel- 
steps, with his companion standing close behind him; 
and Mrs. Sylvestre led her niece forward, and stood be- 
side her, with an expression upon her face which indi- 
cated a sense of righteous displeasure. The necessity 
she felt under to watch the emissary of Satan opposite 
her, who supported the bridegroom, somewhat diverted 
the attention she was anxious to give to the latter ; but, 
as she scornfully said to herself, they were cast in the 
same mold. They were both pale, quiet to immobility, 
and with a reserve of expression which baffled her pene- 
tration. She had observed keenly when she gave Me- 
thuen the wedding-ring (which it had been her function 
to procure) that the hand which took it was perfectly 
steady, and that the voice which greeted them in those 
few hurried moments was the same. But she was by 
no means deficient in acuteness, and the completeness 
of his mastery over himself only deepened the conviction 
of the severity of the effort which had been required. 
The days which had elapsed since she saw him last 
seemed to have wrought the effect of years upon him, 
although to her mind the sternly beautiful face was 
more attractive than his former sweet and winning as- 
pect had been. 

As the service proceeded, a feeling of reluctant sym- 
pathy and respect stirred in her mind toward him. She 
pitied any man who was to be the husband of Anna 
Trevelyan ; but this man had reasons of his own which 
made the union abhorrent to him, and yet had succeeded 
in ordering his looks and manner into such complete 
subserviency to his will. Anna would be in strong 
hands, she said to herself with a grim smile. 

Only once did she see his countenance change ; it was 
when for a moment Mr. Dormer held their united hands 
under his own as he pronounced the momentous words 
which rendered the marriage bond indissoluble. 

The change was an indefinable one : a slight increase 
of pallor, a hardening of the lines of the resolute face, a 
deepening of purpose in the steadfast eyes ; but it meant 
the instinctive revolt of his whole nature against the un- 
natural contract, and the renewed suppression of that 
revolt by strength of will. 


212 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


As soon as the ceremony was over, he lifted his wife’s 
hand to his lips, and received the congratulations of the 
little group with proper recognition. He introduced his 
companion with an air of marked deference to the two 
clergymen, who did not recognize the well-known name, 
as Father Florentius, and asked if they would return his 
courtesy by assisting in their turn at the ceremony 
which was immediately to follow according to the rites 
of his own Church. 

Mr. Dormer, however, excused himself on the plea of 
further “ duty,” meeting the graceful cordiality of the 
priest with that amount of reserve and stiffness which 
marked his sense of the ecclesiastical gulf which divided 
them. 

During the few minutes spent in the vestry for the 
necessary signatures, Mrs. Sylvestre was astonished to 
find herself yielding to the irresistible charm of Father 
Florentius’ manners. He had the happiest art of say- 
ing, even of looking, the things most acceptable to the 
person addressed, and so filled the situation by his tact 
and fluent courtesies, that any omissions on the part of 
Methuen were not likely to be noticed. 

His recognition of Anna was so masterly an exhibition 
of high-breeding, conveying at once interest, admira- 
tion, and delicate respect, that Mr. Dormer was irresist- 
ibly conscious of the inferiority of his own greeting ; and 
the girl herself, who could scarcely resist the depressing 
influence of her new husband’s reserve, brightened and 
responded. 

The chapel was not more than ten minutes’ distance 
from St. Barnabas Church, and the party reached it in 
two cabs. During that brief interval Philip said : 

I hope you will be satisfied with the arrangements I 
have made — I thought you would like to go direct to 
Florence. Do you feel equal to crossing the Channel 
to-night?” 

She looked down for a moment, conscious that it was 
not what she liked. She would have liked to carry home 
her triumph to Methuen Place — to have smiled defiance 
into Mrs. Gibson’s keen, suspicious face — to have kissed 
Honor Aylmer’s cheek and whispered: “I have won 
what 1 never meant to lose !” Then she glanced across 
at her companion, and her reluctance vanished. 

“ It is no matter to me where I go, so long as you are 
with me, Philip.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


213 


She stopped, her pale face suddenly suffused with a 
glow of color. 

“ You have not kissed me yet,” she said. “ Kiss me now !” 

She put her arms about his neck and her warm red 
lips to his, and felt with a thrill of triumph that the 
pressure was returned. 

It was not likely to be Philip Methuen’s way to remit 
any point of service to which his honor pledged him — 
it would have been not only a cruelty biit a fraud to re- 
ject the caresses of the passionate girl who had cast her 
reputation at his feet. The task required of him was 
one that made life look haggard and bankrupt in the long 
future that probably stretched before them, but he had 
accepted it. 

To his mind that meant neither flight nor evasion. 

An hour later Mr. and Mrs. Sylvestre were standing 
alone on the main-line departure platform at Charing 
Cross, watching the express as it dashed out into the 
murky drizzle. She had bidden Lady Methuen farewell 
with a complacency that could never have been gained 
by Anna Trevelyan. As they turned slowly and began 
to walk toward their hotel, the vicar remarked : 

“ Do you really think that Philip Methuen does not 
care for Anna? It is a very shocking idea, and no new 
husband could possibly be more attentive.” 

“ In the way of magazines, newspapers, and wraps, it 
would be quite impossible,” she answered, with a curi- 
ous inflection in her voice. “ It is also evident that he 
is not prepared for much conversation on their journey, 
nor for what there is being of a confidential nature. 
Perhaps you did not observe the dexterity with which he 
avoided the empty carriages? But the future is their 
own affair. Thank God, I have done with Anna Trevel- 
yan!” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. 

As a man calls for wine before he fightSj 
I asked one draught of earlier happier sights, 

Ere fitly 1 could hope to play my part.” 

— R. Browning. 

There are many ways of meeting the irremediable. 
A man may face it with absolute austerity, yielding 
what is exacted without protest or complaint, but add- 


214 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


ing to it no grace of gentleness or heroic effort at ameli- 
oration. In a sense, it is comparatively easy to do the 
thing we have admitted ;it to be our duty to do, with a 
hand of iron and a heart of steel ; but it is infinitely hard 
to appear to fulfil the unwelcome task with the gracious 
freedom and fulness which flow spontaneously toward 
the work we choose for ourselves and love to perform. 

Amid all the cross-currents of life there is none more 
baffling nor disastrous than an ill-assorted marriage. It 
is not a situation in which worth and honor show in 
heroic proportions, but it is one in which a man’s or 
woman’s capacity to endure and conquer may be tested 
to an extent which makes all other martyrdoms poor 
and superficial. 

Philip Methuen has been married six months, and it 
must be allowed that so far he has fulfilled his duties on 
the lines of hard necessity alone. Anna had her rights 
as his wife, and they were rendered, but not a jot be- 
yond. 

They went abroad, and he allowed her unlimited choice 
as to where they should go or how long they should stay ; 
but it was he who decided what society they should 
keep, and how they should employ their time. What- 
ever appeared reasonable or right for Anna to do or to 
enjoy he conceded, and was her unwearied companion 
in the doing or the enjoyment of it; but there was no 
appeal from his decisions. 

During the excitement of constant change of place 
and scene, and the new bliss of their union, the young 
wife was fairly acquiescent ; but six months is a period 
long enough to test the patience and credulity of the 
most love-stricken, and Lady Methuen was slowly awak- 
ening to a sense of disappointment and resentment. As 
was characteristic, her grievances were of a low and per- 
sonal kind. She was so beautiful that every man’s eye 
which rested upon her quickened, bringing her the in- 
disputable tribute which she felt to be her right ; but her 
husband’s face never glowed nor softened as he looked 
at her, although that beauty was his own inalienable 
possession, and she did her best to use it for the con- 
quest of his senses and his heart. 

Over and over again had she presented herself to him 
in some new toilet of bewitchery, or under conditions of 
studied negligence and effective dishevelment which in- 
stinct taught her were more potent still ; but no fire had 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


215 


lighted the sombre eyes, nor any responsive smile of 
perception parted the lips. With the vehement con- 
trariety of her nature, his coldness only served to stim- 
ulate her ardor; if he had fully reciprocated her pas- 
sion, it probably would have cooled. 

Easter fell early the ensuing year, and they returned 
to Rome to spend it there, diligently attending the elab- 
orate and incessant services of the Church — the one as a 
point of acceptable duty, the other as offering the best 
field of display for her beauty and distinction of dress. 
A few days after their marriage, Philip had said to her : 

“ I think you profess to be an unbeliever, Anna ; but 
you will be willing to allow that this is the result or 
early influences, not of any thinking or experience of 
your own. You are now bound to spend your life with 
a man who believes in God, and I shall require you, as 
my wife, to attend the services of the Church — not too 
strictly, but enough to give the opportunity of some 
word of divine conviction reaching your heart.’' 

“ Will you not also give me good books to read, and 
argue with me, so as to show me my errors?” she asked, 
with a sort of tender mockery. 

“ No,” he answered, “ I shall not do that, unless the 
time should come that you ask to be taught in the true 
spirit of humility. It is not a perversion of the intellect 
with you so much as a fault of character.” 

“ I would as soon kneel beside you as sit beside you,” 
she said, “ and I like to watch you at your prayers.” 

This, as we have said, was in the first days of their 
marriage; but when Easter found them at Rome, six 
months had passed, and Anna was weary of travel, and 
had already begun to question whether life with Philip 
Methuen were quite equal to her expectations, and to 
answer the doubt with a bitter and passionate denial. 

The constant restraint he exercised over her conduct ; 
his absolute indifference to the pleasures of the shifting 
society of Continental cities, even although he did not 
prevent her from taking her share of them ; the gravity 
of his personal pursuits ; the austerity of his rule of life ; 
the unreasonable amount of time and money he gave to 
matters of philanthropy and religion — burdened and 
chafed her temper almost past endurance. 

But, after all, this was not the core of the girl’s disap- 
pointment. That lay in the fact that the conquest of 
his heart, of which she had made so sure — the yielding 


2i6 the story of PHILIP METHUEN, 

of his nature into the softness of passion under her influ- 
ence — seemed as far off now as ever. 

Rather, indeed, the chances were more remote and 
hopeless : with the vehement and sensuous temperament 
and keen faculty of insight, she could not hide from her- 
self that either this man, whom she adored, was incapa- 
ble of loving, or that she, in spite of her charms, was 
incapable of exciting the emotion in him. Then she 
missed, as all who knew him missed it, the sweetness 
and gentleness which had been his distinguishing char- 
acteristic. 

The one circumstance that held her under restraint 
and rendered her life tolerable was that his indifference 
to the society and attractions of other women was so 
complete as to mitigate the crime of his insensibility to 
herself ; for if once the idea had been received by her 
mind that what was withheld from her was bestowed 
elsewhere, her pain and wrath would have burst all 
bounds. 

Another stone of offence in Anna Methuen's path was 
one over which it may be considered that she legiti- 
mately stumbled — her husband’s refusal to return to 
England and go home. On this point she had the cour- 
age to renew the discussion time after time, feeling that 
she had right on her side. 

One morning at this period, Anna was sitting alone in 
the fine salon of the suite of apartments they occupied in 
the Strada del Popolo. All the windows were open to 
the warm air, revealing a faint blue sky without fleck or 
cloud and palpitating with meridian heat and light; 
while, on the left side of the outlook, one could glimpse 
the terraces of the Pincio, with the white gleam of 
marble amid its pines and cypress. 

She was dressed in a faint cinnamon-tinted gown, of 
so slight a texture as to define, almost too obviously, 
the outlines of the superb form it covered; and the hair, 
which was well drawn back from the perfect face and 
twisted into heavy coils in the creamy nape of her neck, 
caught shades of bronze and gold in the sunshine, where 
she sat with a book between her languid fingers. 

She had declined her husband’s invitation to go out of 
doors, and now sat impatiently awaiting his return. 
Later in the day she would “receive,” as was her habit 
on two days of the week, and would have the gratifica- 
tion of having her rooms thronged by the select few of 


TBE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


217 


n?tive Roman society, and a more miscellaneous crowd 
of distinguished English and American strangers. For 
that occasion she had a new tea-gown prepared after her 
own artistic device, so unique and beautiful that it might 
almost have made the Medicean Venus herself dissatis- 
fied with her unadorned perfection. But till that hour 
of social triumph arrived, there was a long spell of time 
to get through, and Philip’s absence was unduly pro- 
I traded. She was always eager for his return when they 
I were apart ; but to-day she had a speech ready prepared 
I to greet him, and was wearying to test its effect. 

I When he came in she rose from her seat at the further 
end of the room, and went toward him, book in hand. 

“You sometimes scold me, Philip, because I never 
read; but I have been reading one of your books this 
morning, and found something which has almost made 
me cry with longing and vexation. I will read it to 
you.” And she read aloud those well-known and prob- 
ably best-quoted lines of Robert Browning : 

“Oh, to be in England now that April’s there ! 

And whoever wakes in England sees some morning unaware 
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England — now ! ” 

She closed the book and put it down, still keeping her 
eyes on his face. “ Think of Methuen Park,” she said. 
“ Once more, will you take me home? I am more sick 
of Italy than words can say !” 

He looked at her from head to foot, for her toilet was 
of a kind to challenge attention, saw how beautiful she 
was, and how boldly aggressive in her consciousness of 
the fact, and — hated that beauty ! Also he recalled how 
it was she alone who stood between him and his return 
from an exile which was far more painful to himself 
than to her. 

“ No,” he answered, “ I will not go home.” 

Another vision was before his eyes, so adorable in its 
noble sweetness and reticence as to wring his soul with 
an almost intolerable regret, and to give to his voice a 
harshness of which he was scarcely aware. He crossed 
the room as he spoke, and sat down on a couch a little 
in the shadow of the wall. 

Anna, whose keen sight could have defied a much 
longer distance, stood where he had left her, and looked 
at him with intent observation. 


2i8 


THE STORY OF PHILIP MEJ'HUEH. 


“We have been married more than six months,” she 
said — and there was a threatening vibration in her voice 
“ and have been vagabonds all that time. I am sick of 
vagabondage ! Methuen Place is my proper home and 
yours, and I love it. I love England in the spring bet- 
ter than at any other time. What I ask you to do is 
right and reasonable. Why do you refuse? You must 
have some very strong reason.” 

Philip was silent for a moment. Possibly, in order 
to preserve his sacred secret, he might have to yield this 
point, and had been ill advised in his persistent refusal. 

“ It is to be supposed,” he answered, “♦that I have what 
appears to me good reason for what I do. The quiet life 
we should of necessity lead at Methuen Place you would 
soon tire of. You must know that there is a line of de- 
marcation between me and our neighbors.” 

He had a sense of indignant shame as he said this, 
feeling such insincerity to be part of the ignominy of his 
position, and was also aware that his wife’s acuteness 
detected the reserve and reluctance of his manner. 

“As for that,” she answered eagerly, catching at the 
symptoms of hesitation, “ the remedy is in my own 
hands. I will undertake to readjust your social rela- 
tions. All the county will call on Lady Methuen out of 
curiosity at first, and she will engage to make friends of 
the county. I shall also be able to amuse myself with 
improving and refurnishing the old house. Then there 
is another point you seem to overlook — that between us 
and our neighbors at Earlescourt there is assuredly no 
line of demarcation.” 

“ Does it not occur to you, Anna, that the fact of your 
having refused Adrian Earle’s offer of marriage will be 
a difficulty in regard to any renewal of our former inter- 
course?” 

“ I am not of that opinion at all,” was her eager re- 
joinder. “ Adrian and I parted the best friends in the 
world. Besides, would you wish me to give up the ad- 
vantage of Honor Alymer’s friendship and the satisfac- 
tion of amusing poor Oliver because — because I loved 
you and not him?” 

She paused, but, as there was no response, went on 
again : 

“ Or, granting that there may be a little awkwardness 
at first, will you be at no trouble to get over it in order 
that I may still be able to profit from the example of a 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 219 

girl you have always held up to me as a model? I pre- 
sume you think as well now of Honor Aylmer as before 
you went to India?” 

“Not as well,” he answered, “but infinitely better. 
When I went to India I had only an imperfect knowledge 
of her character. During my uncle’s last illness I was 
often, as you may probably know, at Earlescourt, and 
learned to do her fuller justice.” 

The manner was so natural, and the tone so quiet, that 
it once more shook the half-suspicion in Anna’s mind. 

“ In that case,” she answered, “ it will be just as pleas- 
ant for you as for me to be friends again v/ith the Earles- 
court family. What is it worth to me that people here 
know me as your wife? In one sense the honor only 
counts in one’s own country. I want Oliver and scorn- 
ful Miss Earle, I want Honor Alymer herself, to see that 
I did not rate myself too high, or claim that to which I 
was not entitled,” and the girl raised her beautiful head 
with an air of proud assurance, which baffled the man 
who heard and watched her. Presently she added, with 
a flash of her magnificent eyes — angry and hurt at the 
cold unresponsiveness of his manner : “ Good as Miss 
Aylmer is, and perfect in your eyes, with wealth and 
position so far above poor Anna Trevelyan, at least she 
has been able to take from her the two men, neither of 
whom she would have refused to marry !” 

He had tried by an imperative gesture to arrest the 
words before they left her tongue, but failed. She took 
a malicious pleasure in insulting the woman that he 
commended, and was in a mood to defy any indignation 
she might arouse. But as she met his eyes there was 
that in their concentrated anger and scorn which helped 
even her blind moral sense to perceive that the sin she 
had committed was a heinous one in his sight. 

“ I have stated an undeniable fact,” she said, in defi- 
ance of her inward sinking of heart. “ Why do you look 
at me, Philip, as if you hated me?” 

“ I pray God,” he said, with intense expression, “ that 
I may not hate the woman with whom I am bound to 
live ; but hate is not the word to express the feeling she 
is capable of exciting in my mind.” 

And he got up and went out of the room. 

He walked rapidly in the direction of the Pincian Hill ; 
but the noontide heat was so intense that he soon turned 
aside into the sheltered gardens of the Villa Medici, and 


220 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


sat down on one of the lichen-covered stone seats in the 
grateful shadow of the ilex-trees, the high hedges of 
dense box, which enclose the straight formal paths of the 
garden, shutting out the enchanting vista beyond. 
There lay the widespread Campagna, which had lost its 
vivid autumnal tints, and was now a delicious plain of 
vernal green waving with flowers, and beyond that 
gleamed the silver streak of intense white light where 
the sea melts into the horizon at Ostia. 

But Methuen’s object was to be free to think, not to 
admire the beauty which seemed an incongruous setting 
to such misery as his. 

He had often speculated whether any hardship or mis- 
fortune could befall him which his native force of char- 
acter, helped by religion, would not enable him to en- 
dure ; but now he was already doubting whether it would 
be possible for him to live his life with a girl capable of 
such measureless indelicacy and bluntness of moral per- 
ception as Anna had just betrayed. The words which 
she had spoken were like the sting of a lash to the acute 
susceptibility with which he guarded the honor of the 
woman who had loved him. 

He put it in this way to himself, for love had ceased 
to be lawful between them, and whatever was outside 
the range of duty was to each of them a thing to be con- 
quered at all costs ; but also the closer insight he had 
obtained into the depths of his wife’s unworthiness 
strengthened his conviction of the necessity of preserv- 
ing the sacred secret of their love. 

And then, for a few moments, nature wrenched the 
mastery from his grasp, and he suffered his mind to 
dwell upon the lost possibilities of life — the wreck and 
bankruptcy which had overtaken him, turning light into 
darkness, and making of existence a load almost too 
heavy to be borne. 

His memory forced upon him that terrible scene of 
parting in which the patience and devotion of Honor had 
touched a divine height, and enhanced the severity of 
renunciation. The dread of moral retrogression, too, 
was strong upon him. All his strength seemed drawn 
off into the daily struggle to endure and to forget, and 
he condemned himself as failing in tolerance and gen- 
erosity toward his wife, in that he was abhorring what 
he should deplore, and hardening his heart against the 
manifestations of her love, where lay, perhaps, the one 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


221 


chance of redemption, if redemption were possible for 
selfishness so overmastering as hers. 

There were other considerations as well. Was the 
outcome of his life, hitherto so full of worthy ambitions, 
to be nothing beyond this domestic conflict, more or less 
successful, with attention to such side-issues as he might 
be able to give? Was this marriage to mulct him at all 
points — not only of happiness, but of the power of doing 
good in his generation? This waste of energy and op- 
portunity — this burying of the talents of youth, faculty, 
and wealth — was a crime he dare not lay upon his con- 
science. 

He would shake off this unmanly incubus, or, at least 
(for that was scarcely possible), do his work in life as 
well as might be under the weight of it ; and perhaps — 
for Methuen’s mind immediately turned toward putting 
principles into practice — it would be wise as well as 
kind to reconsider his wife’s wishes and return to Eng- 
land. That did not mean — even a return to Methuen 
Place did not mean — renewed relations with Earles- 
court; the instinct of every member of that family 
would fortify his own judgment and keep them apart. 

On their way home he would visit Lord Sainsbury, 
who was still resident at Mentone, and of whose health 
he had received good accounts of late, and make the 
offer of his services to him in any way which seemed 
best. There was yet the stress of his late uncle’s affec- 
tionate ambition binding upon his grateful memory. 


CHAPTER XXVIH. 

“ Where ye feel your honor grip, 

Let that aye be your border; 

Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences, 

And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences.” 

—Burns. 

It seemed to Anna Methuen like one of the quips and 
cranks of an ironical fate, that some time after her hus- 
band had gone out, the servant brought her a card with 
Adrian Earle’s name upon it, and asked whether the sig- 
nora would see the gentleman before her appointed hour 
of receiving. 

There was a brief pause of rapid consideration, 
the antitheta of compliance ranging themselves clearly 


222 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


in her prompt and dexterous mind. Her decision was 
soon formed; there would be indisputable proof of 
the assertion she had so recently made, and a fresh 
point to urge in furtherance of her wishes; also here 
was relief for her intolerable ennui, and a tribute to her 
influence not to be despised in her present mood of irri- 
tation and depression. 

A few moments later she was standing up, flushed 
and radiant, with outstretched hand, to welcome her 
visitor. She saw at the first glance that Adrian was 
looking better than she ever remembered to have seen 
him ; he was tanned and braced by adventurous travel, 
and there was greater vigor both of body and mind in 
his aspect. And he, as he walked up the long salon, per- 
ceived that even his memory as a lover had never painted 
her so beautiful as she was, and that the familiar ring of 
her low, melodious voice, which he had taught himself 
to believe had lost its power over his heart — the very 
hopelessness of his passion curing itself — set all his 
pulses beating at fever-heat. 

“ Is it really you — so soon, Adrian?” she said. “ How 
sweet and kind it is of you to come and see me ! I am 
more pleased than words can say. But how did you 
know where to find us?” 

” It is not a hard matter. Lady Methuen, for those who 
read their Galignani to discover the domicile of such 
distinguished visitors as yourselves. I landed at Brin- 
disi a few days ago, and came on here for the Easter fes- 
tivities. It is so long since I have seen a familiar face 
that I risked denial in the hope of seeing yours.” 

“ Why should I deny myself to you,” she asked, with 
that simple directness of speech which was one of her 
best characteristics, “ if you are willing to be friends 
with me? You must stay and dine with us? All the 
world is coming to us this afternoon, and I should like 
you to see how I play my part as dame-de-salon. Be- 
sides, I have all your adventures to hear.” 

So great was her own exhilaration that she did not 
stop to consider whether Adrian might not find some 
difficulty in responding to her unexpected familiarity 
and kindness; and when, shortly afterward, Methuen 
came in, she introduced their guest with a triumphant 
satisfaction, which only served to mark the contrast be- 
tween her cordiality and her husband’s courteous but re- 
served greeting. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


223 


To the latter this visit appeared a breach equally of 
right feeling and good taste, and he marvelled that 
Adrian Earle should have crossed the threshold of his 
door, when he could not but believe that he had been 
grossly wronged and misled. It was no small addition 
to Methuen’s trouble that explanation on the point of his 
seeming treachery to his friend would be impossible; 
the facts of his marriage it would always be out of his 
own power to explain. 

Anna, with that sort of deliberate effrontery she was 
in the habit of employing when she considered she had 
cause of complaint against her husband, did not allow 
his entrance to interrupt the easy flow of her talk with 
Adrian ; and the radiant sweetness of her looks and the 
dulcet cadences of her voice moved Methuen to indig- 
nant sympathy, as he watched their effect in the 
changes of Earle's expressive face. 

“ Philip was only telling me this morning,” she said, 
“ that we could never be friends with Earlescourt any 
more ; but since you have forgiven me, the difficulty is 
removed — no one else has a right to be angry.” 

“ Perhaps not with you, Anna,” interposed Methuen, 
quietly ; ” but Mr. Earle and I have a quarrel of our own 
which will effectually prevent our putting his magnan- 
imity to the test in the future.” 

He looked at him as he spoke with a steadfast gravity 
of regard, not unmixed with kindness and regret, but 
Adrian did not choose to meet it. He lifted his eye- 
brows and made a corresponding movement of the 
shoulders in a characteristic way, as though the chal- 
lenge were beneath his notice, and laughed his delicate, 
derisive laugh. 

” There is not much depth in my nature, as you know, 
for memories either good or bad,” he answered. “I am 
willing to be friends all round, and wipe out your 
offences, Philip, as well as those of — others. Twelve 
months’ knocking about the world shows things in their 
true proportions. The wise man does not nurse resent- 
ments.” 

Philip bowed stiffly, and Anna said with effusion: 

“You do not know how happy you make me! Half 
the pleasure of going home would be lost if your house 
were shut against us. Philip cannot stand out any 
longer. But I must go and change my gown. You will 
wait? — and dine? There are people coming who are 


224 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


worth seeing ; and at any rate I wish you to remain, if 
only to discover that I have at length developed a taste 
in dress. I shall be satisfied if you approve. Philip 
never looks at me.” . 

As she went out, two other guests were introduced 
into the apartment — men of considerable political influ- 
ence, whose names only were known to Adrian Earle, 
but whom it was an unmistakable honor to meet — and 
both he and Methuen welcomed the circumstance as re- 
lieving them from the disagreeable friction of a personal 
interview. 

That afternoon afforded Anna Methuen one of her 
most acceptable triumphs, and on the strength of it her 
bearing to all those with whom she came into contact 
was more haughty, assured, and indifferent than her 
wont. 

She read the effect of her beauty, accentuated by the 
picturesque costume which she wore, in the vivid glance 
of every man that looked at her, and in the guarded cor- 
diality of the women who were her guests — appraising 
the one tribute as highly as the other. 

Adrian stayed for an hour or two longer; but the 
crowd was so great, and Anna’s Italian speech so fluent 
and swift, that he contented himself for the most part 
with watching and listening, in a mood made up of pain 
and cynicism. He smiled to himself to see what hard 
work Philip had to do to redress the balance of Anna’s 
insolent exclusiveness and caprice by his own fine cour- 
tesy and tact, and even admitted to himself that few 
men could have fulfilled the difficult function better. 
The man looked older and altered to a degree that sur- 
prised Adrian Earle, judging from the physical effects 
of his own disappointment ; but there was the same dis- 
tinction and individuality of aspect and manner which 
always challenged attention, and perhaps justified the 
expression in Anna’s face as he chanced to catch it when 
her eyes rested for a moment on her husband. Seeing 
that Adrian had noticed the look, she colored with vex- 
ation, and motioned him to come and speak to her. 

“ You see the girl to whom Philip is talking with that 
ridiculous air of interest and respect? She is Vittoria 
Orsini, a girl of good birth, only just let out of her con- 
vent, and without two ideas in her head. She is not in 
the least beautiful — is she? Can you help me to under- 
stand why he looks at her like that?” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 225 

It would have puzzled, or perhaps even disillusioned, 
any other man but one who had known Anna Trevelyan 
from a girl, that such a question could have been pro- 
posed by her to himself. As it was, he swallowed his 
distaste, and contented himself with answering a little 
spitefully : 

“ She is very pretty and innocent-looking, and is of the 
type of woman whom Methuen admires.” 

Anna turned a little pale. “ Ah, you want to punish 
me ! Don’t make any mistakes. It may not seem so, 
but — I am still very fond of Philip.” 

“ And you scarcely expected your constancy to last so 
long? Six months, is it? Well, I could scarcely have 
been justified in forgiving you if you had spoiled my 
life for less than that.” 

“ Spoiled your life !” she repeated, disdainfully. “ I 
never saw you look so well and self-satisfied before. I 
—I should like to ask you a question. Who told you 
that Philip and I were married?” 

The color came into her cheek and a spark of fire into 
her eyes. 

Adrian glanced at her, and then looked with a disen- 
gaged air across the room. 

“ I saw the announcement in all the papers when I got 
back to Paris. I was then on my way home, but — I took 
another departure. I was stricken with a sudden desire 
to see the Soudan with my own eyes and went, and ex- 
tended my tour afterward up and down the Nile. I am 
going to write a book about Egypt.” 

“ You mean that your own people did not mention it 
in their letters?” 

“ They mentioned it simply as an event that had hap- 
pened — nothing more. 

And then he turned and looked at her intently. 

She was still watching her husband, and her eyes had 
a tender, wistful look, such as he had never seen in them 
before, except in connection with this man’s name. It 
quickened his sense of enmity against him. 

“ It is an impertinence,” he said, “ to ask a six months* 
old wife whether she is happy ; but — you sacrificed me 
without the hesitation of a moment in order to become 
so. Are you quite satisfied with the result?” 

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to help her in- 
ward search ; then her bosom heaved, and the corners of 
her beautiful mouth drooped a little. 


226 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


“ If you had had your way and married me/’ she an- 
swered, “ how tired we should have been of each other 
by this time ! It is a great strain on human nature to 
have to live most of the twenty-four hours in each 
other’s company, and you cannot fairly judge of this 
without proving it ; but still there is only one man in 
the world with whom I could bear it, and he might 
make it easier to bear. Philip !” 

Her accent, laden with passion, was the same as of 
old ; the same as when she stood, a pale, crude, forlorn 
girl, by his side, and looked down for the first time upon 
Methuen Place. Adrian winced under it, in spite of the 
resistance of his wounded pride. His eyes involuntarily 
followed the direction of hers ; and Methuen, as if feel- 
ing the magnetism of their gaze, stopped in what he 
was saying to the lily-fair girl at his side, and glanced 
toward them. His face had a cold, hard look in it, 
which was new to Adrian’s former knowledge of him. 

Obeying an irresistible movement of his mind, with- 
out giving himself time for reflection, he said, in a low, 
intense whisper : 

“ He is not unkind to you, Anna?” 

Anna threw up her magnificent head ; her love and 
her pride were cut to the quick by the lack of response 
on Philip’s part, fully conscious as she was what her 
own face must have expressed. 

“ He is not unkind,” she answered; “ he is cruel.” 

She gave him no time to reply, nor, as he saw with an 
angry pain, did she so much as glance toward him to 
see the effect of her words. The next moment she was 
answering the gracious courtesies of a certain dignitary 
of the Church, high in favor at the Quirinal, who was 
pledging himself to procure for her an introduction to 
the inner court circle which it had suddenly occurred to 
her she should like to obtain ; and Adrian made his way 
through the throng, intending to disappear without 
leave-taking to either host or hostess. 

This purpose was, however, frustrated by Philip, who, 
seeing his intention, came forward to speak to him. 

“ You will not, then, accept Lady Methuen’s invitation 
to dine with us this evening?” 

“No,” he answered brusquely, “I will not. I should 
risk too much.” 

“ Then you are in the right to refuse. It will perhaps 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


227 


be better that you should not come here any more. We 
are leaving Rome almost immediately.” 

Adrian nodded, and passed on without shaking hands. 
It was his way of marking resentment — the only vent he 
allowed himself for the rage and pity of his soul. 

That night, when dinner was over and dessert on the 
table, the tall wax-candles scarcely flickering, though 
the windows stood wide open, Philip said to his wife : 

“ I have thought over what you asked me this morn- 
ing, and have decided to do as you wish. We will leave 
for England as soon as you please.” 

Anna continued to play with the strawberries on her 
plate for a few moments longer in silence; then she 
looked up. 

“ You would not have yielded if Adrian Earle had not 
turned up to-day. You are willing to go now what you 
refused before, because, at the same time, you take 
away from me a pleasure almost as great as the one you 
have persuaded yourself to grant.” 

“I do not understand you,” he began; and then he 
suddenly dropped the cold reserve of his manner, and a 
softer expression came into his face. 

“ Anna,” he said, kindly, “ there must be an end to this 
strife and contradiction between us ; it lowers both of us. 
I know that I have often failed in patience and consid- 
eration, but I will be more careful not to vex you in the 
future ; and you on your side must try to be more reason- 
able and conciliatory. Shall it be a contract between us.^” 

He had meant to infuse more affectionateness into his 
words and manner; but the sweetness and tenderness 
seemed beyond his power to force or simulate, and he 
felt he had failed as he met Anna’s eyes. 

“ Let us talk about your part of the contract first,” she 
answered. “ Do you mean to behave like other men 
when we get back to England? I mean, will you allow 
me to take my proper place in English society? Will 
you w’rite to your lawyers at once — say to-morrow — and 
give orders to have the house in South Audley Street 
put in proper repair, and furnished as it ought to be at 
the beginning of a new reign? And while that is going 
on, will you take apartments or a house in town, so that 
I can have my own way as regards details and decora- 
tion, and enjoy a London season in my own right? Will 
you do this?” 


228 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


There was provocation and defiance in her tone, but 
he was strictly on guard. 

“ Yes,” he said, “within certain limits I am prepared 
to do this.” 

“ But that is not all,” she continued, and she put her 
elbows on the table, and leaned her dainty chin upon her 
clasped hands, with her beautiful eyes full on his face. 
“ When our house is ready, will you consent to entertain 
in a proper manner — not in your narrow exclusive sect, 
but without distinction beyond that of social advantage?” 

He smiled a little, with that sort of aloofness from her 
power to wound, which hurt her heart and pride alike. 

“ I shall always reserve to myself the duty of choosing 
the society we keep,” he answered; “but I have never 
been accustomed to confine it to members of my own 
communion, which is not a sect, little Anna, but the 
dominant creed of Christendom. For the rest, T am not 
only willing but anxious to meet your wishes so for as 
my means allow.” 

“ Your means!” she repeated. “ Are you not rich?” 

“ I am not rich as Sir Walter Earle is rich, and I have 
heavy arrears of obligation to meet. A great deal of 
building needs to be done in Skeffington ; and there are 
some streets in Crawford, which are part of the Methuen 
estate, which admit of no improvement without com- 
plete demolition.” 

“ And you will waste your money like that 1” she cried. 
“And when life is so short, and so soon over, and wants 
so much to make it bearable I I do not think that this is 
fair to your wife.” 

“ It will make no difference to my wife. I have 
already given instructions to my lawyers, Anna, to draw 
up a deed of settlement which will make you quite inde- 
pendent of me as regards your personal expenses. But 
these different claims will leave no margin for extrav- 
agance or ostentation.” 

“ And is the money you allow me calculated on the 

lines of my poverty and friendlessness, or ” and she 

paused without finishing her sentence. 

“ Yes,” he said, quietly, “ I think it is; at least Messrs. 
Chapman & Hurst tell me that it exceeds the provision 
made by my late uncle on behalf of his wife, and there- 
fore it can scarcely be considered as below your 
rights ” 

“ Oh !” she exclaimed, eagerly interrupting him, “ she 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


229 


and I don’t stand on an equality! I have heard Sir 
Walter Earle say that Sir Giles Methuen adored his wife. 
You know quite well that the scale in which my claims 
are weighed is empty of all that, and you throw in more 
gold to make the balance even! Do you remember you 
spoke just now of patience and consideration? Such 
words are an insult to me. Philip, I shall learn to hate 
you if you will not love me a little for my much !” 

She pushed back her chair from the table, and, getting 
up, came half-way toward him, then stopped short, with 
her clasped hands crossed on her breast, and her beauti- 
ful head bowed in an attitude almost of supplication. 

“ I wonder you can resist me !” she said, in her low 
trdifiante voice. 

The color rushed into his face, and his brow contract- 
ed. The capriciousness of a temper which veered from 
insult to tenderness within the space of ten minutes — 
a love which demanded and offered caresses only as proof 
and test of its existence, and ignored or outraged the 
deepest feelings of his nature — which stooped to the 
arts of the mistress instead of maintaining the dignity of 
a wife — revolted him, and closed his heart against her, 
and would have done so without the effectual barrier of 
absolute preoccupation. Had Anna known it, she could 
not have riveted the bonds of the old love more firmly 
than by offering perpetually so glaring a contrast. 

And yet he condemned himself, inasmuch as he could 
not coerce his soul to the fealty to which he had pledged 
himself. Had her love been nobler, it might have sub- 
dued him — but such as it was ! 

Such as it was, some response was required from him. 

He rose to meet her advance, and taking her hands in 
his, drew her close to him and looked earnestly into the 
expectant flushed face raised to his. 

“You do both of us a great wrong,” he said, “when 
you take this posture of humility, and beg me to care for 
you a little. I have cared for you, Anna, since the day 
we first met — do you remember? Your father took me 
to the Fiesole farm to see you, and you ran and hid your- 
self behind the pine-stack, and could not be persuaded 
to come out and show yourself. In those early days you 
used to scold me because I did not kiss you often enough. 
I am just the same now as then. I have never lived with 
tender women, nor learned to show affection after their 
fashion ; but it exists. Anna, there is nothing lies so 


230 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


near my heart as your happiness and welfare. Do not 
let us quarrel !” 

He stooped and kissed her as he spoke ; and she, moved 
by a finer instinct than her wont, forbore to fiing her 
arms about his neck and repay his kindness with her 
ardor. 

“ If I could be quite sure,” she answered, leaning her 
lovely head upon his shoulder, “ that it is your way to 
love in this reluctant fashion, and that you are keeping 
nothing back from me ! But if I thought or knew the 
woman lived whom you could have loved better than me 
— in another fashion — it would be a bad day for all three 
of us when Anna Methuen made that discovery.” 

“That day will never come,” he said quietly, and 
kissed her again as he spoke ; but for the first time a 
doubt flashed across his mind whether he had taken the 
best and noblest way in concealing the length and 
breadth cf the sacrifice which she had extorted from 
him. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed the bond — 

Still one must lead some life beyond. 

Have a bliss to die with, dim descried. 

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best ? ** 

— R. Browning. 

The three months which followed the Methuens’ re- 
turn to London were perhaps the happiest period which 
Anna had ever known. Philip, as she expressed it to 
herself, seemed to have turned over a new leaf, and to 
be bent on helping her to fulfil the programme of tri- 
umph and self-gratification she had marked out. 

They took the house in Gloucester Place for the sea- 
son — for so searching were Anna’s reforms that there 
was no possibility of their own being ready for occupa- 
tion — and very soon they had made good their admis- 
sion into the innermost circles of London society. 
Their success was due in no small measure to the active 
friendship of Lord Sainsbury, who in their behalf threw 
off the indolent cynicism with which he was credited. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


231 


He did his utmost, by his own generous recognition of 
Methuen’s former services and worth, to indicate to his 
immediate friends the terms on which he accounted him 
entitled to be received, and extended to his wife so much 
kindness and consideration as served at once for a cachet 
of distinction. Lord Sainsbury’s efforts were seconded 
by his widowed sister, Mrs. Auchester, who was the mis- 
tress of his house, and his ready co-operator at all 
points ; and Anna, at once flattered and grateful, showed 
to better advantage than at any former period. A girl 
so beautiful as she was bestowed pleasure and conferred 
distinction upon any company that she joined, and her 
personality was so unique and brilliant that it enhanced 
the first impression of her good looks. She was neither 
intellectual nor well read, and almost as ignorant of the 
great questions of the day as she was indifferent to them 
— self being the centre of all her radiations ; but she had 
great tact and promptness of perception, and could not 
only cover her ignorance adroitly, but, by guarded gen- 
eralities and an air of wistful consideration, assume a 
knowledge she did not possess. 

As a hostess. Lady Methuen did not excel, except in a 
certain artistic individuality as regarded the accessories 
of her table and surroundings ; for she was too intent on 
monopolizing the chief share of attention and admira- 
tion, and found it irksome to be civil to other women 
without the direct view of personal advantage. 

But here Methuen’s innate and carefully trained cour- 
tesy helped to fill up her own shortcomings. He suc- 
ceeded without effort where she failed, because the 
pleasure of each guest was not only the professed but 
actual object of his solicitude; and while every word 
and action seemed regulated by some unerring law of 
subtle adaptation, the absence of strain or self-conscious- 
ness was obvious to the most casual observer. 

Although no longer officially connected with Lord 
Sainsbury, his time and services were still greatly at 
his former chief’s command; and indeed it soon became 
pretty well understood in their own immediate circle 
that if there were any difficult work to be done on the 
lines of social or political philanthropy, demanding sus- 
tained and personally unremunerative labor, Philip Me- 
thuen was the man to fall back upon. 

At the same time, he never permitted these engage- 
ments to interfere with Anna’s legitimate claims; or 


232 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


rather, while he put it in this way to himself, he was 
equally influenced by a deep-rooted mistrust of her dis- 
cretion and right feeling. He not only rode with her in 
the Row when her mood inclined to so healthful an ex- 
ercise, but he often sat beside her in her carriage during 
her unwearied afternoon perambulations — unwearied 
because the tributes offered to her vanity neve ceased 
to please — w’henever he knew she had no other suitable 
companion. When sh. was not under the sufficient 
chaperonage of Mrs. Auchester, he accompanied her to 
her evening amusements, and fulfilled th ^ function of 
the hour without apparent grudging or impatience nor 
did he ever claim her gratitude or hold himself entitled 
to it, for sacrifices which were almost as hard as stern 
duty under any aspect could have exacted from him. 

Anna was never unwilling to exhibit in society what 
accomplishments she possessed, and she would hav 
been quite ready to exercise in its behoof her singular 
talent of improvisation, as well as her brilliant musical 
gifts, if Philip had not put an absolute veto on th exhi- 
bition of the 1 tter. It was a point she yielded with the 
greatest reluctance, knowing her own powers of fascin- 
ation ; but she consented to do so as being fairly satisfied 
with the present state of things, and her husband’s gen- 
eral subserviency to her will and pleasure. 

It is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Methuen 
was neither an acute nor a delicate observer. A woman 
who could misinterpret, as she had done, the signs of re- 
pugnance and despair in the scene which had fixed her 
destiny, was scarcely likely to read aright the less 
marked and carefully guarded manifestations of Methu- 
en’s daily behavior. She was beginning to accept the 
studied kindness and conscientious observance as the 
nearest approach to love and its expression that his tem- 
perament admitted, and his incessant companionship as 
a proof of her growing influence. It is equally true that 
she still missed, with an angry pang, ffie response to her 
own ardor which she had felt so sure of awakening ; but 
she was so absorbed in the novelty of her social tri- 
umphs that she had not the same leisure nor inclina- 
tion to brood over her disappointment. 

There was one, however, whose sagacity was more 
penetra'ting. Lord Sainsbury watched the young man 
whom he loved with an almost paternal anxiety and re- 
spect. Intimate as their relations were, Philip Methuen 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


233 


held inviolate the secrets of his married life — no disclos- 
ure nor complaint ever passed his lips. Every attention 
and service offered to Anna was accepted by him with a 
cordial gratitude that could scarcely have taken a 
warmer tone, and his personal treatment of her was per- 
fect in its consideration and loyalt5\ He was simply 
putting into practice the resolutions made in the Medici 
Gardens, and the purpose expressed to his wife before 
they left Rome ; and that with a completeness and suc- 
cess which were the result of a harder struggle than the 
discipline of St. Sulpice, or the mission-field of the Corea 
would ever have exacted. But such victories leave their 
scars ; and it often cut Lord Sainsbury to the heart to 
detect, in the tamed enthusiasms, the eager acceptance 
of work apart from personal choice or interest, and the 
constant effort to conceal his latent weariness and dis- 
satisfaction, that Time had as yet brought to Methuen 
but little healing on its wings. 

Gracious as this good friend was to Anna, and pre- 
pared to admit her attractions, he had no personal liking 
for her. Apart from the fact that she, in some way he 
did not understand, had spoiled the life of his friend, her 
obvious lack of all the nobler elements of character, and 
her conspicuous, unblushing self-seeking, were keenly 
discriminated by him ; and there were moments when, 
reading by some instinctive movement how sharp was 
the jar received by the man doomed to be her life-com- 
panion, he could scarcely repress some manifestation of 
sympathy. 

He had even questioned in his own mind whether he 
should break the reserve between them and solicit Methu- 
en’s confidence; but this would not have been easy in 
contact with the resolute silence the latter chose to ob- 
serve, and which was carried out so completely, that he 
never recognized any hint or suggestion, however 
guarded or kind. 

An incident, however, occurred about this time which 
broke down the barrier of reticence between them. 

It happened one morning early in July that Lord 
Sainsbury and Philip were walking arm in arm across 
the Green Park, engaged in earnest discussion of an in- 
cident which had occurred in the Lower House the night 
before, and was regarded by the former as a significant 
indication of a growing schism among the members of 
the Government, welcome to a man strong in conscien- 


234 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


tious opposition. Their political views were almost 
identical ; and Philip was speaking with the quiet inci- 
siveness and acute judgment of results involved, which 
always caused his late chief the most intimate satisfac- 
tion, when he paused suddenly, and made an involuntary 
movement as though he would have withdrawn his arm 
from his companion. Lord Sainsbury looked up quickly 
for an explanation. 

It was not very far to seek. Following the direction 
of Philip’s eyes, he saw that Sir Walter Earle with 
Honor Aylmer on his arm had just entered the park 
from the lower Piccadilly end, and were advancing along 
the path, evidently prepared to greet them with every 
sign of cordiality. 

Escape was impossible; and yet the glance which 
Lord Sainsbury had cast into Philip’s changed and set 
face convinced him of his absolute reluctance for the in- 
evitable encounter, and moved him to give what help 
was in his power by taking the initiative upon himself. 

So, withdrawing his arm from his companion’s with- 
out the least hint of comprehension, he took a few steps 
in advance to meet Honor, and to encounter the first 
animated overflow of the baronet’s greetings. 

“Well met!” cried Sir Walter, cheerily. “I never 
saw your lordship look in better health and spirits ; and 
I am delighted at the chance of meeting Methuen again 
and being able to offer him at last my congratulations 
on his marriage. All is fair in love and war,” he added 
in a lower tone, grasping Philip’s extended hand with 
great cordiality; “and I am quite prepared, if you will 
allow me, to call on Lady Methuen and wish her joy.” 

“ Anna will take it both as an honor and a kindness.” 

Methuen succeeded in saying these words with a per- 
fectly conventional manner; but there was a further 
duty required of him, which needed a harder effort to 
fulfil. The unexpected sight of Honor, and the instant 
impression he had received that she looked thinner and 
paler than of old, taxed his self-control to the uttermost ; 
but the involuntary tension of his gaze, and the growing 
look of pain in his eyes beyond his power to efface, 
were an appeal to which the tender and stricken woman 
hastened to respond. 

“ Sir Walter only speaks of himself,” she said, smil- 
ing; “ but Miss Earle and I shall be just as pleased to be 
friends with Anna if she will let us. Our stay in town 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


235 


will be very short this season. We are only just arrived, 
or I suppose we should have met before, and we soon go 
home again. Oliver is not so well.” 

Lord Sainsbury, who had immediately engaged Sir 
Walter Earle in conversation on the subject which their 
meeting had interrupted, now slipped his arm through 
the baronet’s, and prepared to retrace his steps in the 
direction in which the other appeared to have been go- 
ing, so as to leave Honor and Methuen at liberty to fall 
behind. 

It was a consideration for which his friend did not 
thank him. 

It may be thought that Methuen’s creed was a narrow 
one, for it ordered simply this — to turn his back on the 
temptation which he feared. After the first inevitable 
gaze at meeting, he had averted his eyes from her. It 
was necessary to walk by her side ; but he did so looking 
straight before him, and with the consciousness, quick- 
ening with every breath he drew, that the mere sound 
of her voice had stirred to their depths the remorse and 
despair of the future, which were as profound as on that 
day of separation. 

This man’s love had not been one passion among many 
— a little stronger and purer than the rest — but the very 
breath and essence of his manhood. To be thus brought 
face to face with Honor was to have the vision thrust 
upon him from which it was his deliberate desire to es- 
cape — that of the heaven he had lost and the hell to 
which he was condemned. 

Some attempt at speech, however, was imperative; 
and as soon as he could trust his voice he said, falling 
back upon her last words : 

** You mentioned Oliver. He is not seriously ill, I 
hope?” 

“ He has been worse than I ever remember to have 
known him,” was the answer. “ His life is increasingly 
hard to bear, and — he cannot bear it. The physicians, 
too, give us no hope of improvement.” 

“ And you? — forgive me this once — I thought you 
looked ill. I pray God, Honor, that it is because you 
have been suffering with him?” 

“Yes,” she said, quietly, “it is just that; and Miss 
Earle insisted on bringing me up to town for a month.” 

She forbore to call him by his name, or to ask him any 
questions. Indeed, all that her tender heart yearned to 


236 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


know she had read in his face and voice, and her own 
quiet hopeless misery which she thought she had re- 
duced to submission, stirred and quickened with a con- 
vulsive life. 

He did not break the silence which had again fallen 
between them for several minutes, then he said : 

“ You spoke just now of being friends with Anna; but, 
understand once more, the thing is impossible. Promise 
me that you will not make the attempt — out of mistaken 
generosity.” 

“ I promise whatever you wish ; but — you must let me 
take advantage of this opportunity ! — I believe we might 
meet without harm, and strengthen and console each 
other.” 

“ You might so meet,” he said, abruptly — “ not I !” 

Then perceiving that Lord Sainsbury and his compam 
ion, who were some way in advance, had stopped as il 
to take leave of each other, he added quickly : 

“ Do not form wrong conclusions because I have be- 
haved like a churl and a coward this morning. The 
shock of seeing you took me so utterly unawares. 1. 
want you to know that time has done something for me 
— that there are alleviations in my life. I am able to 
take pleasure in work once more. Anna — Anna behaves 
well and suspects nothing. I believe she is happy.” 

Here he looked at her ; his reluctant gaze devouring 
the pale, lovely, pathetic face. 

“ You are not really ill?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper: 
“ tell me I am not so miserable as to have been able to 
hurt your health !” 

“No, no,” she answered eagerly; “I have been quite 
well until lately. I am only a little fagged with anxiety 
about Oliver. Don’t be angry with me if I say the sight 
of you has done me good. I can see in your face — Philip 
— that you are strong and brave, as I dared to tell you 
you would be. I thank God it is so ! It is the one thing 
which makes my heart sing a little for joy.” 

Their eyes met: hers, woman-like, shining through 
tears of tender reverence, his softened to an expression 
of poignant sweetness, to which his face had long been 
a stranger. 

“ Then I am glad we met,” he said, and took her hand 
in formal leave-taking, for the others were close upon 
them by this time. 

“ When may I tell Anna you will do her the honor to 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 237 

call?” he asked of Sir Walter, with a perfect recovery of 
his usual manner. 

“ To-morrow, if you like. I will come and ask her for 
a cup of afternoon tea, since I perceive, Methuen, you 
have no intention to ask me to dine.” 

“No guest can be more welcome to either of us,” said 
Philip, smiling ; “ come to-morrow and dictate your own 
conditions.” 

When they were gone, he turned back to Lord Sains- 
bury’s side, taking up the conversation, after his wont, 
at the precise point where it had been interrupted ; but 
the other did not intend to be put off. 

“ It hardly seems worth while, Methuen, to keep up 
the pretence of indifference with me, I like you well 
enough, but I should like you better if you would draw 
oftener on the sympathy of your friends.” 

“ That is a reproach which Lord Sainsbury should be 
the last man to make to me. It is not long since I came 
to you telling you frankly the story of my trouble and 
asking for help. You helped me generously, even to the 
extent of leaving your retirement sooner on my ac- 
count.” 

“ And does it not strike you that this is all the stronger 
reason why you should trust me now, when I see with 
my own eyes what must be still more obvious to yours? 
It is not only your own life which has been spoiled— 
Miss Aylmer is very much altered.” 

Philip did not speak directly. “ If this be so,” he said 
after a little, “ sympathy can only take the form of 
silence, for there is nothing to be done. Words waste 
strength. I want all I have to walk straight and live my 
life decently. What has happened this morning will 
not make things easier, nor would it do so to talk them 
over with you. Your kindness would not help, but 
hinder me. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful.” 

They walked on in silence for a few minutes ; then 
Sainsbury said : 

“ Things are evidently drifting toward a renewal of 
intercourse between the families, — will that help or 
Hinder your happiness, Methuen?” 

“ They must not so drift,” was the answer. “ There is 
no question of happiness concerned — it would be the 
ruin of peace and honor on all sides.” They had turned 
into Waterloo Place, and were now just opposite the 
Travellers’ Club. Philip stopped. 

16 


238 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

“ I think your lordship said yon were going in here 
this morning, and I will ask leave to wish you good- 
morning. Frankly, I shall be glad to be alone.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Who is it that says most ? which can say more 
Than this rich praise— that you alone are you ? 


You to your beauteous blessings add a curse, 

Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse." 

—Shakespeare: Sonnets, 

On the same morning that this meeting had occurred, 
Adrian Earle called on Lady Methuen in Gloucester 
Place. Anna welcomed him with a cordiality which at 
once flattered and provoked him. 

“ It is odd,” he said, as he let go the hand she extend- 
ed, ” that you never knew how to be civil to me till civil- 
ity was of no value. Why are you so pleased to see me?” 

“ I want you to go with me to South Audley Street and 
speak the final word about the arabesques for the draw- 
ing-room ceiling. They are pretty, but impoverished- 
looking — indeed that is what they are I I have discov- 
ered a young Italian genius who has sent me some 
perfect designs for centres and angles — scenes from the 
‘Decameron’ — but Philip says we cannot afford them. 
I thought when I was Lady Methuen I had heard the last 
of that detestable formula.” 

“ Ah !” said Adrian in a low, suggestive voice, “ we are 
always a little behind our expectations.” He threw 
himself into a low lounging-chair, clasping his hands 
behind his head in a favorite attitude, and looked up at 
Anna with an expression of fine raillery. 

His morning dress was perfection; a glance showed 
that the art of physical personal cultivation had been 
carried to the highest point. There was an extreme del- 
icacy and refinement conveyed by every feature and 
limb, every turn of expression and of movement. The 
thought came into Anna’s mind that he was a great deal 
more attractive now than in the days before her mar- 
riage, and her face flushed a little. 

” I think I can read Lady Methuen’s thought,” he re- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN 


239 


sumed, still speaking with the same slightly ironical 
inflection. “ She is speculating whether, if she had mar- 
ried the humblest of her humble servants, his income 
would have been adequate to ‘Decameron’ episodes on 
her drawing-room ceiling.” 

Anna’s color deepened. Love cannot exist without 
some sense of loyalty to its object, and daily contact 
with virtue breeds discrimination. 

“ You ought not to say such a thing as that; not that 
it really offends me, but I feel that it ought to offend me. 
I had no such thought ; though now you mention it, I do 
wish Philip were as rich as you. How much do you 
think a man ought to spend in charity?” 

“ Personally, I am quite content with the law as my 
almoner, and what little adroit mendicancy extorts from 
my pockets; but I can believe it possible that a man 
like Methuen, who is tied hand and foot by the notion 
of religious obligation, may give a tithe of all he pos- 
sesses.” 

“ Ah !” she cried eagerly, “ and you look upon that, of 
course, as the ne plus ultra of religious fanaticism? 
Well, you are both right and wrong. That is what 
Philip gives, and counts it — nothing ! He says that is a 
debt, and charity only begins after it is paid.” 

Adrian slightly shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Then, though you will tell me again I ought not to 
say it, I think you have every right to consider yourself 
ill-used. You will remember, Anna, that you told me 
in Rome you did so consider yourself.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I told you so, but it was not true ; 
or, if true, then it is not so now, and never was in the 
sense that you would understand it.” And then, after a 
pause — “ I thought you and he used to be good friends?” 

“We drew together pretty well before he went to India 
— never since his return.” He hesitated and added — 
“ Besides, no friendship could stand up against wrongs 
as great as one man can receive from another. But on 
this subject it is forbidden me to speak.” 

“ Is it? I don’t in the least understand. You need not 
mind saying what you mean to me ; I am very tolerant 
of wrong-doing. It may sound odd, but I should really 
be almost glad to know that Philip had behaved badly 
in some way or another ! Can’t you understand how irk- 
some it is to live with a person who is always in the 
right, especially,” she added in a lower tone, “ when he 


240 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


has no difficulty in proving that you are always in the 
wrong?” 

Adrian got up and sauntered to the window. He could 
not trust himself to look into her face. He had seen the 
sudden suffusion of her eyes, and heard the vibration of 
sensibility in her voice, and was moved by them to an 
indignant and passionate sympathy. He said to himself 
(as all men say in the same circumstances), that if she 
had been happy he could have been content; but the 
knowledge that Anna Methuen was suffering from the 
indifference and neglect of the man who had taken her 
from himself, and was wasting with conscious pain the 
ardent tenderness he would have given years out of his 
life to obtain, was too hard to bear in silence and pa- 
tience. 

He was not perfectly acquainted with the circum- 
stances which had led to their marriage; but the gossip 
of the neighborhood could not be shut out from his ears, 
and he had a general impression that there had been in- 
discretion on the one side, and sacrifice more or less on 
the other. He had also naturally questioned the mem- 
bers of his own family, but, with the exception of 
Oliver, they had preserved an honorable silence. From 
the latter, however, he learned enough to acquit Methu- 
en, however unwillingly, of deliberate duplicity toward 
himself. At the same time (so difficult is it for either 
man or woman to estimate fairly the claims of the 
human creature whom they love), Adrian argued that 
the personal sacrifice in marrying a beautiful girl who 
had betrayed the secret of her love could not have been 
very great, and, anyway, the man who undertook it was 
bound to render her happy. To himself Anna was still 
now, as before, the great prize of life — lost, indeed, but 
none the less precious on that account — and her unhap- 
piness and discontent touched him more closely than his 
own. 

“ Do you remember,” he said, coming back to her after 
he had recovered his firmness, “ that I once told you that 
if ever the time came when you wanted help and com- 
fort, you would find me ready to give it? If there is 
anything I can do, put me to the proof, Anna.” 

He was half amused and half mortified at her answer. 
The rare mood of sensibility was over, and the intrinsic 
selfishness of her character reasserted itself. 

“ Help me to get this thing done as I wish. Yester- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


241 


day Lady Andrew Pattison went through the house with 
me, and I told her what I had planned, and that Philip 
would not consent. In her bold way — you know her, I 
suppose, like all the rest of the world? — she laughed to 
scorn the notion of my subserviency to his will and 
pleasure. ‘Give the order, my dear, and take the con- 
sequences,’ she said, ‘or else you may write yourself 
down slave for life.’ But I am a coward after all; I 
don’t dare to do that. I am afraid of Philip.” 

The color came into Adrian’s face. 

“The thing could easily be managed,” he said. “I 
have given you no wedding present, Anna, and this is 
but a trifle ! Order your painter to do his best, and ” — 
he looked at her eager face to see how far he might ven- 
ture, and added quietly — “ send me the bill.” 

“ Without telling Philip?” 

He smiled in spite of himself at the bluntness of her 
perceptions : it was a little shock even to his infatuation ; 
only with that eager wistful look in her eyes, how beau- 
tiful she was ! Through life Anna had always accepted 
gifts as a prince accepts his dues. 

“ Tell Philip that your protige has consented to paint 
your ceiling for the honor of the thing, at the same price 
as the arabesques would have cost, and — arrange with 
the man accordingly. I need not say my name is not to 
appear. You will pay the difference out of your pin- 
money.” 

Anna reflected. “ If no one ever found it out, I would 
not mind ; for you are very rich, and will not miss it, 
and I shall have to live a great part of my life in that 
room ; only Philip is not easily deceived. He seems to 
know what everything is worth ; he would never believe 
that the man would do such good work for so little 
money.” 

“ Not if the artist told him so himself?” he asked, sig- 
nificantly. 

She colored. “ I will think about it and let you know 
and then the wistful, preoccupied look grew less concen- 
trated, and she turned away from him and approached 
the window. 

The sight of Adrian’s groom leading his master’s horse 
up and down before the house suggested to her mind a 
new train of thought. 

“ How delightful it would be,” she said, turning round 
with great animation, “ for you and me to ride together 


242 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


in the park! Is there any reason why we should not? 
I can get my horse brought round from the livery stables 
in ten minutes” — crossing the room and putting her 
hand upon the bell — “ that is, if you have no better en- 
gagement. Philip is with Lord Sainsbury, and will not 
be home to luncheon. Let us go ! it will be like old 
times again.” 

Of course he assented, and Anna, moved by some in- 
explicable coquetry, exerted herself to please him as she 
had never done before. She talked continually of 
Earlescourt, as if the happiest days in her life had been 
spent there, and offered him the subtle flattery of recall- 
ing things he had done and words that he had spoken in 
the far-away past. 

Then she looked to superb advantage on horseback : 
men turned back to look at her, not only because she 
was beautiful, but that she seemed to radiate vigor and 
health like some youthful goddess. 

Adrian could have wished that she had known fewer 
people, and not responded so freely to the recognition of 
her friends. He was scarcely willing as yet that their 
names should be mentioned together. 

Among those who accosted Anna was a well-pre- 
served, handsome woman, with the bold, direct gaze 
and perfect aplomb which indicate a comfortable assur- 
ance of recognized social standing. She was riding a 
thorough-bred mare, groomed to the highest point of 
perfection, and the servant in attendance was mounted 
on one of the showiest cobs in the row. She stared 
hard at Adrian, and then said, with the matchless effron- 
tery of the modern woman of fashion : 

“ Introduce me to your cavalier, my dear. It is quite 
refreshing to see you attended by some one else than 
your husband. Personally, I adore Sir Philip Methuen, 
but I applaud every effort in the direction of conjugal 
independence.” 

Anna named Adrian without the slightest hesitation, 
saying a little spitefully : 

“ But I thought Lady Andrew Pattison knew all the 
world?” 

“No doubt,” interposed Adrian; “therefore the con- 
clusion is that I have been out of the world.” 

Lady Andrew regarded him attentively. 

“I know your father,” she said; “but there are no 
young men like him. I never remember to have seen 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


243 


you before; you must have been in hiding or going 
round the world, as they all do nowadays. Every one I 
meet bores me about Japan.'’ 

“ I can undertake to bore you,” said Adrian, “ without 
going so far afield.” 

She gave him a bright look and nod of encouragement. 

“ Come,” she exclaimed, “we shall be good friends; 
but we must not stand here any longer — my mare ob- 
jects to have her haunches constantly jostled. It is 
marvellous how few people can steer clear even of so 
pronounced an impedhnent as myself.” 

They walked their horses leisurely the full length of 
the Row, Lady Andrew Pattison not only taking the 
lead in conversation, but ignoring or overwhelming 
Anna’s attempts at participation. As regarded Adrian, 
she simply took possession of him, eliciting his opinions 
and taking his measure while offering him perfumed 
doses of ingenious flattery. 

Anna, who never willingly submitted to the role of 
spectator or subordinate, broke in with a certain defiant 
unconventionality, saying it was time for her to return 
home, and they would bid Lady Andrew “ Good-morn- 
ing.” 

“We will turn at once,” was the answer. “It shall 
never be said that it was my fault that Lady Methuen 
neglected her domestic duties. By the way, have you 
thought twice about the matter we were discussing yes- 
terday, and made up your mind to give little Farini the 
chance of winning himself immortality?” 

There was a latent sarcasm in the tone which brought 
the angry color into Anna’s face. The speaker was evi- 
dently prepared for a negative. 

“ I think that may possibly be the conclusion I shall 
reach,” she said coldly, “ only, I mean to submit his de- 
signs to a little closer investigation. Some of them 
struck me as ’’She hesitated and blushed. 

“As — as — \i2LV\n% 2^ soup^on of impropriety?” laughed 
the other. “ My dear, that simply means they are re- 
lieved from absolute insipidity ; but I frankly own I am 
out of my reckoning. I did not think lo sposo would 
yield to the pressure applied. No conquest, I see, lies 
beyond your bright eyes. It will be the prettiest room 
outside Belgravia. Ta, ta, ma bellcl' 


244 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


“I would I could adopt your will 
See with your eyes, and set my neart 
Beating by yours, and drink my fill 
At your soul's springs,— your part, my part 
In life, for good and ill.” 

— R. Browning. 

Sir Walter Earle paid his congratulatory, visit to 
Lady Methuen as he had promised, and made several 
observations. 

He had always, as men do when not subjected to their 
influence, condoned Anna’s faults of character and tem- 
per on the score of her beauty, and he perceived that 
the development of that beauty even went beyond the 
promise of her girlhood. Had her manners been as 
captivating as her person, he said to himself, she would 
have been simply irresistible. But Anna, unless bent on 
being gracious, was too scornfully indifferent, too soci- 
ally negligent to please. 

Society abhors egotism, and demands at least the ap- 
pearance of unselfishness, and Anna’s self-seeking was 
rarely in abeyance. It is true she did her best to win 
the good-will of Sir Walter Earle; and the sparkle of 
pleasure in her eyes, the inflection of grateful welcome 
in her voice, and the marked deference she showed him 
in a room full of people, did please him effectually. 

He responded frankly to her cordiality, and expressed 
a hope that the coolness now subsisting between the two 
families might soon be got over. 

“Adrian,” he said, smiling, “must do as better men 
have done before him — make friends with the woman 
who would not have him as a husband. We cannot give 
up our neighbors to please him.” 

Some indefinable reserve prevented Anna from saying 
that Adrian had already proved that he found no diffi- 
culty in this matter ; it was quite evident to her quick 
perception that Sir Walter did not know that they had 
met. 

“ It is not Adrian that I am afraid of,” she answered, 
in her low, seductive voice. “ There has been plenty of 
time for him to forget such an insignificant creature as 
myself; but will Miss Earle and Honor forgive me.^” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


245 


Her glance and accent turned Sir Walter Earle into 
her advocate. 

That same day after dinner, as soon as the cloth and 
servants were withdrawn, he opened the subject with his 
sister, telling her where he had been, and asking if she 
could not be induced to forgive the slight Anna had put 
upon her nephew, and offer her the civility of a call and 
invitation to dinner. 

Miss Earle looked up sharply : it needed a mental effort 
to recall the difference between the real facts of the case 
and her brother’s partial knowledge of them. 

“ It strikes me as a little inconsistent,” continued Sir 
Walter, “ that you should bear the girl so much ill-will, 
Bella, when the step she took in Adrian’s little affair 
was the only one that would have pleased you.” 

Miss Earle reddened, and glanced toward Honor. To 
see the color fading from that dear face, and the veiled 
look of pain in her eyes, hardened her heart against 
Anna Methuen. Evidently she was averse to any re- 
newed intercourse with the Methuens. How, indeed, 
could she, with any regard to dignity and peace of mind, 
meet the man who had sacrificed her to the shameless 
exigence of another woman? 

It had always seemed to Miss Earle’s robust good 
sense that it would have been better that the truth had 
been generally known, at least to Anna herself and the 
members of their own family ; but she had yielded the 
point to the urgent representations of the girl whom 
she considered to have been so cruelly wronged, and 
whose love, after the interval of all these months, 
seemed neither to have waxed nor waned. Honor still 
held by her inflexible belief in Methuen’s worth, which 
had irked and irritated Miss Earle all along. But the 
necessity of keeping the secret to which she was pledged 
made her say : 

“ I do not quarrel with Anna because she rejected 
Adrian — that is the one point in her favor — but because I 
never liked her, and was wearied and disgusted by her sel- 
fishness and arrogance when she was our guest last year.” 

“ Oh, my dear, you may feel sure that Lady Methuen 
will be better behaved than Anna Trevelyan. We can 
never, for the sake of ‘auld lang syne,’ have them living 
at Methuen Place as strangers. The neighbors will talk. 
Also, you seem to have forgotten how valuable Methu- 
en’s kindness was to our poor Oliver.” 


, 246 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


“ I admit that as an argument,” said Miss Earle, with 
an impatient sigh ; ” but I am not at all sure they would 
be such good trends in the future. You know you all 
liked Philip Methuen a great deal better than I.” 

“ I am prepared to own he is a man who has disap- 
pointed me a little,” was Sir Walter’s answer. ” He is 
evidently not going to make the figure in the world I ex- 
pected, though I learn there is still a chance of getting 
him into Parliament under the Norfolk patronage, only 
they must make haste about it. Honor would tell you 
that we met him and Sainsbury in the park yesterday. 
He struck me as very much altered.” 

Miss Earle cast a swift glance of grieved surprise upon 
Honor, but she answered loyally, without the hesitation 
of a moment : “ Since yesterday morning we have been 
in such a whirl of petty engagements that we have not 
had the chance of five minutes’ private conversation. 
We will discuss this matter. Honor and I, at our ease 
presently, for we are rejoicing in a quiet evening at 
home ; but are you quite sure it would be well advised 
to expose Adrian to Lady Methuen’s influence.^” 

Sir Walter lifted his eyebrows. 

He must take his chance about that. If he does not 
meet her in this house he will meet her elsewhere. He 
is a little too old to be kept in leading-strings.” 

As soon as the two women were alone together. Miss 
Earle turned her grave, reproachful face full upon 
Honor. 

“ Is this man to come between us and rob me even of 
your trust?” she asked. “Why did you not tell me of 
this?” 

“Why?” repeated Honor; “why?” — and there was an 
accent almost of despair in her voice — “ because I 
thought I would be brave, and try and keep my misery 
to myself ; but — I should have told you. It is too strong 
for me after all.” 

She went up to Miss Earle with a look in her eyes such 
as the latter scarcely remembered to have seen in them 
even on the day of that terrible separation, and then 
suddenly bowed her face upon her shoulder. 

“ What will you think of me?” she said. “ After all — 
this long time — when I believed the worst was over — I 
am not sure I shall be able to go on — living my life.” 

The voice was sharp with the poignant accent of 
pain ; the figure round which the other had thrown her 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


247 


arm was shaken with sobs — not the facile hysteria of an 
emotional woman, but those which tell of the breaking 
up of fountains hitherto rigidly, sealed. 

Miss Earle’s keen, delicate face changed and quivered. 
She found it hard not to weep, too, with this girl whom 
she loved so fondly; but she controlled herself, and 
stood for a few moments quite silent, and stroking with 
ineffable tenderness the head bowed on her neck. 

“ My darling,” she whispered fondly, “ I was always 
afraid how it would be when you met. God forgive me, 
but I could curse this man.” 

“ Him !” said Honor, with a sort of dull surprise — “ him ! 
He is cursed already. I — I never hated her until yester- 
day.” 

She lifted up her face as she spoke, and Miss Earle 
saw, with almost a shock of surprise, how pale and stern 
it was. 

“ Did he complain of his wife?” she asked, with a 
sneer. “ Did he dare to refer to your past relations?” 

“ He did not complain of her. He said she behaved 
well and was happy, and that he was able to take pleas- 
ure in his daily work. But I — I offered to be friends 
with Anna, and besought him to let us meet sometimes. 
He refused.” 

“ And am I then to understand, my poor child, that 
you have looked forward to a renewal of intercourse 
with the Methuens? Could you endure it?” 

“ I could not only endure it,” was her answer, ‘'but I 
do not think I can endure to give up the idea. Some- 
times to see him, so that I can judge for myself whether 
his life is bearable — or, at least, how he bears it — is nec- 
essary to help me to bear my own. You — mother ! more 
almost than that — you will believe that I could do this 
without injuring — Anna, I was going to say, but I will 
say without wronging my own self or him by a single 
thought?” 

” My dear, it would be harder than you think — at least 
for him.” 

“ So he said ; but I have thought the matter out, and 
— he must be convinced that he is wrong. Picture him 
shut up in Methuen Place — with her — which is so full of 
cruel memories for him. Chief of all, the memories of 
the old uncle he loved so much, and who died happy, 
thinking he had made his happiness sure. That thought 
alone must be terrible to bear and hide*' 


248 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ Honor, these fine agonies don’t pierce men’s hearts 
like onrs ; he will have his outlets. Also, he has mar- 
ried a very beautiful woman : she has probably consoled 
him by this time.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Honor, ‘‘ that does not touch me. I only 
wish she had, and I would forgive her everything. If 
Anna could make Philip happy, God knows I would re- 
joice and be glad; you should not hear a word of com- 
plaint or regret from me then.” 

Miss Earle was silent, stroking delicately the hand she 
held. 

“ Tell me, dear, what passed between you, if you can, 
that has so opened up the flood-gates of your grief. My 
pet! I had thought you were beginning to be content.” 

“ I think I was cheating my own soul by telling my- 
self he would forget me and be happy. What passed.^ 
Very little; only he looked as if the fight had been — 
harder even than I feared — very much altered, as Sir 
Walter puts it; and he looked at me and spoke to me 
simply under compulsion. That is,” dropping her voice, 
“ I saw that he could scarcely bear it.” 

“ And your logical conclusion is that it would do him 
good to be forced to bear it?” 

“ I think that if he could be induced to bear it until it 
ceased to be painful — if he could take up his old rela- 
tions with us all — be Adrian’s friend again, and kind 
and helpful as in the days gone by — it would be better 
for him. You see,” she went on persuasively, “he is 
too much alone, concentrating his strength on one point 
only — doing his daily duty without ease or distraction. 
Don’t you understand, dear?” 

“ I understand quite well that you are of the same 
mind as Sir Walter; you wish me to be civil to his wife, 
and open our doors to her again. You would like to 
call upon Lady Methuen to-morrow, and invite them to 
our next Tuesday’s dinner? My child, he would de- 
cline.” 

“No doubt he would decline ; but it would be a break- 
ing of the ice, and when we are all at home again, things 
might fall into the old groove. If you love me, let us 
put it to the proof.” 

Miss Earle knitted her delicate brows. 

“ And have you nothing to fear from Anna’s jealousy? 
You will be complicating the troubles of this man if you 
excite that girl’s suspicions.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 249 

“ Can you not trust me?” she asked. “ Of him I am 
sure. Besides, her suspicions would surely be aroused 
if we all stood aloof from her.” 

“ I am not convinced, Honor. I think you are setting* 
yourself a task beyond your strength ; but you shall have 
your own way in the matter.” 

Two days after this conversation, when Methuen en- 
tered his wife’s drawing-room at the hour of five o’clock 
tea, Anna said, as she handed him a cup : 

“ You have just missed some old friends. Miss Earle 
and Honor Aylmer have been here.” 

She looked at him steadily as she spoke, but in his in- 
tercourse with his wife Philip seldom put off his armor. 
In spite of the secret spasm of painful surprise, he an- 
swered without embarrassment or hesitation : 

“ Then I am to understand that we are to accept the 
visit as a formal offering of the olive-branch? Ah, Lady 
Andrew Pattison, I beg your pardon. I did not see you 
for the moment. Anna excludes the light almost too 
rigorously.” 

The lady in question was standing in one of the deep 
recesses of the window, gazing out into the street. She 
had risen from her chair in order to command a better 
survey of the Earle equipage, which she had been criti- 
cising to her hostess with her usual air of arrogant final- 
ity, and the folds of the heavy curtain had concealed her 
figure. 

“ Oh, I excuse you readily,” she answered, “ being ac- 
customed to be overlooked wherever Lady Methuen is 
present, who has, we all know, no greater admirer than 
her husband.” 

She fixed her bold black eyes on his face as she spoke, 
with a smile of doubtful suggestion, and then added : 

“ I think myself fortunate to have met Miss Aylmer 
here to-day, for although much talked of — as heiresses 
mostly are — she is seldom seen. It has given me the 
opportunity of correcting an erroneous impression. I 
thought. Sir Philip, you men reputed her to be a beauty?” 

“ I suppose there are few men,” he answered, “ who 
know less of such social estimates than I. I have never 
till this moment heard Miss Aylmer’s beauty canvassed ; 
and those who, like ourselves, have the honor of being 
her friends, are scarcely likely to be fair judges. At 
least,” turning toward his wife, “ Anna and I think her 
beautiful.” 


250 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


His smile and manner had so much of the old winning 
sweetness, that it checked the words that had risen to 
Anna’s tongue. Lady Andrew continued to observe him 
with a peculiar expression on her face. 

“ Ah,” she said, “ I beg pardon. I did not know I trod 
on sacred ground. The relations of the families, then, 
have been more intimate than I even suspected?” 

“ It is a subject quite undeserving the exercise of Lady 
Andrew Pattison’s suspicions. The facts themselves 
are entirely at her service. The Earle’s were our earli- 
est and best friends when Anna and I first came to live 
in England.” 

“ Really ! I should never have gathered that from 
what passed just now. I thought their cordiality a little 
forced, though I own I never saw Lady Methuen more 
effusive. It is easy to see she shares your estimate of 
the beautiful Miss Aylmer.” 

It would be a little difficult to explain the motives 
which actuated Lady Andrew Pattison in her relations 
with the Methuens ; but her instinct was certainly inim- 
ical to their conjugal peace. Anna’s insolent confidence 
in her own beauty, and obvious disparagement of other 
women, herself included, had something to do with it, 
added to a certain fascination which Methuen possessed 
for her, and to the indications of which he had shown 
the most absolute unconsciousness. Her acuteness, too, 
had detected a certain want of spontaneity in the unfail- 
ing kindness of the husband to the wife, which provoked 
the curiosity and speculation of the idle woman of 
fashion. 

Her last words had brought the angry color into 
Anna’s cheek, and a smile of gratification at her own 
successful coup parted her lips. 

“ The girl rises like trout to the fly,” she said to her- 
self, as she marked the haughty uplifting of her beautiful 
head ; but again, and most unexpectedly, Anna held her 
peace, checking the eager disclaimer which had sprung 
to her lips, and checking it only because Philip was 
looking at her so kindly. 

“ If it were not even worse taste for a man to praise 
his wife than himself,” he said, smiling, “ I should be 
inclined to answer that Anna is fortified by nature 
against any jealousy of other women. Also, you must 
forgive my repeating that Miss Aylmer is too much our 
friend to admit of disinterested criticism.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


251 


Lady Andrew Pattison colored. “ I shall take care 
not to offend in the future,” she said. “I see Lady 
Methuen has already learned the same lesson. She is 
dissentient, hut wisely keeps her opinions to herself. 
Odd, isn’t it, that husbands and wives never think alike 
about the same people.^” 

“ Your ladyship’s experience is so much fuller than 
mine,” returned Philip, “that I will not venture to dis- 
pute the assertion, though my own crude notion was 
that daily intercourse tended to accommodation of senti- 
ment.” 

She laughed a little, and turning toward the pier-glass, 
near which she was standing, began coolly to arrange 
her hat and veil prior to departure. 

“ You pick your words with discrimination. Sir Philip; 
accommodation is an elastic phrase.” Then addressing 
Anna: 

“ He was too well advised, my dear Lady Methuen, to 
speak of agreement. Nine months serve as well as nine 
years to dispel certain illusions.” 

Anna shrugged her shoulders, and affected to stifle a 
yawn. 

“ I am not good at that kind of talk,” she said. “ I de- 
test innuendo. Philip and I had no illusions to begin 
with.” 

“ You mean that antagonism was clearly understood 
from the first?” asked the other, with an innocent air. 

Anna’s eyes flashed. “ I mean, that I always loved 
my husband — now as well as then — that there was no 
question of illusion in the matter.” 

She stretched out her hand toward him as she spoke, 
with her grand air, and Philip, meeting boldly Lady 
Andrew Pattison ’s keen glance of investigation, bowed 
low over it, and put it to his lips. 

“ ’Tis like a scene in a French play,” was her re- 
joinder, “ and I feel myself rebuked for the second time 
to-day — by the wife as by the husband. But I see my 
carriage is at your door once more, and there is a droop 
about old Sutton’s shoulders which means sullen despair, 
and reminds me of the unconscionable time I have 
stayed. Au revoir, 7na belief touching Anna’s cheek 
caressingly with her glove ; “ and rely on my holding 
myself at your disposal in regard to the Farini designs. 
Send for me any hour of the day or night.” 

Anna’s response was indifferent to the verge of inci- 


252 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


vility, and as if in defiance of her guest’s cynicism, she 
said to Philip, who was going to see her to her carriage : 

“ Come back again, please, as soon as you can — I have 
something to say to you.” 

He came back as desired, but hesitated for a few mo- 
ments before entering the room. He dreaded what his 
wife was going to tell him, for it probably bore upon her 
renewed intercourse with the Earle family. 

He had an increasing sense of the difficulty and dis- 
crepancy of their position. He was married to a woman 
who adored him, and he could not love her. Had he 
then no magnanimity? — no real faculty of self-mastery? 

Since he and Honor had met a week ago, the craving 
of his heart, which had been held down by remorseless 
pressure, with righteous purpose to stamp it out, had 
quickened into the old vitality. The pain he felt was as 
sharp almost as in that first hour of separation. Per- 
sistent practice seemed to make duty no easier. 

To recall the sweetness of her face as he had lately 
seen it, the tenderness of her voice, the divine unselfish- 
ness of her behavior, was to feel that more was required 
of him than he could bear. 

They must not meet. 

The desire to take her once more into his arms, and 
kiss the pure pathetic lips and the eyes shining with un- 
shed tears — to try and console her for the irremediable 
sorrow he had cost her — would consume his life. 

He vaguely wondered if other men loved other women 
as he loved Honor Aylmer. Not beautiful! Anyway, 
no other of God’s creatures was so formed to meet the 
most subtle and intimate requirements of his being. He 
had told her that, so long as he drew the breath of life, 
no other love would touch him. It was just as true at 
that moment as when the words first left his lips : he 
had no power to change. 

He heard a movement in the room within, as if Anna 
had risen and was approaching the door. 

Could he go in and talk to her? Was not his life an 
ignominy and a lie? And if it were, was it his doing 
that honor and integrity had been out of his reach? 
And this was the outcome of the long training of his 
youth — of the holy ambition and sacred dreams of his 
early manhood. This ! 

“ God! I grope in the dark,” he said inwardly; “but I 
did not choose darkness.” 

He opened the door and went in. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


253 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: 

I will be patient and proud and soberly acquiesce. 

Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, 

Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor — yes.” 

— ABT Volger. 

Anna had seated herself in a low lonnging-chair, with 
a careful adjustment of her picturesque tea-gown. She 
was fanning herself with a languid, imperial air pecul- 
iarly her own, and with a sense of profound personal 
satisfaction. She had just enjoyed one of the dearest 
triumphs of her life ; the recognition of her position as 
Lady Methuen by the friends who had known her in her 
former state of insignificance and dependence ; and she 
was pleasing herself with the prospect of future indem- 
nification. 

There was a little mirror fixed in the stick of her fan, 
and as she slowly moved it to and fro she studied the re- 
flection of her face with a smile of intense conviction. 

Her claims to admiration, unlike those of other wom- 
en, did not admit of canvass. She was as beautiful as a 
Greek statue, if such a statue could have been raised to 
her level by having the warm wave of vigorous life sent 
flowing through its perfect form. 

The expression of her eyes as she looked up at her 
husband’s entrance puzzled him. They shone with the 
softened light of caressing self-gratulation. 

“ I am so happy,” she said, “ so happy ! I think I have 
got now all I want. Are not you glad of what has hap- 
pened? You see I was right! I knew they would come 
round sooner or later. Why shouldn’t they, for none of 
them wished me to marry Adrian?” 

“ Yes,” he said; “ I allow you judged better than I.” 

She looked toward him sharply. “ You are not glad! 
I don’t understand. Earlescourtused to be more to you 
than to me. What has changed you, Philip?” 

, “ I am not changed. Earlescourt is to me what it 
always was, only I cannot get over as easily as you seem 
to do the awkwardness of future intercourse with 
Adrian Earle. You have spoiled our friendship, Anna.” 

“ Do you regret it?” she asked, with an inflection in 
her voice, and an expression of eye and lip that would 

17 


254 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


have drawn any other man to her feet ; and that he was 
impervious to the charm, and still kept his eyes on a 
book which he had carelessly taken up from the table, 
cut her heart with equal pain and anger. “ At any rate,” 
she resumed, ” you will have to get over the awkward- 
ness. 1 have accepted their invitation to dinner for next 
Tuesday.” 

“lam engaged,” he answered, with a certain eager- 
ness. ” You will have to write and explain.” 

Her vexation was so great that her temper mastered 
the discretion she had learned to employ in their daily 
intercourse. 

” I do not believe you,” she said sharply; “ you have a 
standing engagement to thwart my wishes.” 

He shut up the book, and came nearer to her. 

” That is a breach of good manners, Anna, which you 
must not commit again. You can easily satisfy yourself 
that I speak the truth. The Indian Budget is fixed for 
Tuesday, and I have promised Lord Sainsbury to be in 
the House.” 

She fanned herself deliberately, keeping her eyes 
fixed on his face. 

“ Are you ill,” she asked, “ or only angry, that you look 
so pale? I would much rather you went into a passion. It 
is of no great consequence, after all. Miss Earle said 
Tuesday week would do, if you happened to have an 
engagement. But perhaps the Indian debate will be 
adjourned.^” 

He paused, weighing with swift precision the for and 
against. 

“ I will go on Tuesday week,” was the answer. He 
recognized the impossibility of further resistance. 
Events must take their course. 

‘‘ You have made me quite happy,” said Anna, with a 
full return of her conciliatory manner; for she lacked 
the fine sense of proportion, and had no remembrance 
of the hurt or outrage she had inflicted, so soon as it 
suited her own interest or pleasure to forget it. 

She rose as she spoke, and going up to him, slipped 
her beautiful arm, from which her loose sleeve fell back, 
about his neck and kissed him. 

“ Miss Earle told me Sir Walter had said you were 
very much altered ; but I think you are more like Don- 
atello’s St. George than ever — only more beautiful.” 

She spoke, leaning against him, in a caressing whis- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


255 


per, and it was as much as he could do to check the in- 
stinct which prompted him to free himself from her 
encircling arms and the lingering pressure of her lips. 

The sensuousness of her love revolted him. There 
were moments when he wished some sudden blight 
might fall upon the beauty that provoked it. Her en- 
dearments tried his patience more than any other por- 
tion of his daily discipline, every charm she possessed 
working upon his temperament to increased repugnance. 
He could nave borne his forced union better had she 
been less lovely. 

“ I might have answered,'* continued Anna, “ that you 
were not the only one who was altered. I think when 
you see Honor Aylmer again you will agree with Lady 
Andrew Pattison that she cannot be called beautiful. 
Once I was jealous of her; but that is past. I have 
gained where she has lost. I am glad — for your sake, 
Philip.” 

” There never was a time,” he said, putting her gently 
away from him, ” when you were not more beautiful 
than Honor Aylmer. Beauty includes your whole cir- 
cle of perfection, Anna.” 

” Not quite; there must be room for pleasure to come 
in. Come! it is a delightful afternoon — drive with me 
in the Park for an hour. It does you good sometimes 
to contemplate the world, the flesh, and the devil on 
their rounds. More; Lady Andrew said her box at 
Covent Garden is at my disposal to-night. It is 
‘Fidelio, ’ and you like ‘Fidelioi’ Will you go? or must 
you lend your ears to Lord Sainsbury?” 

He consented to go, thankful when the duty required 
of him took such practical definite forms, and giving 
Anna no reason to complain of the way in which he ful- 
filled his promise. So far as was possible, he adapted 
himself to her mood and temper, and accepted her ob- 
servations and criticisms with as much kindly courtesy 
as if each word had not proved anew that they had 
neither thought nor feeling in common. Nor did he by 
any means omit the numerous petits soins which an in- 
dulged and beautiful woman is apt to exact from what- 
ever man is in attendance. 

Anna felt fairly content as she sat by his side in the 
brilliant theatre, for it was a renewed proof of her suc- 
cess in getting what she wanted. She was perfectly 
satisfied with herself, her husband, and her dress, not 


256 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


to say with the general outlook of her position. During 
the course of the evening several men of their acquaint- 
ance came to their box to pay their respects to her, 
willing to prove the honor of knowing the most beauti- 
ful woman in the house ; but it would have been impossi- 
ble to have found cause of offence or jealousy in her 
behavior. 

She took the civil things they said to her with the 
most absolute indifference — much as an idol in a shrine 
absorbs the incense offered. She would refer from 
what they said to her husband with an odd mingling of 
naivete and insolence, which had a sort of provocative at- 
traction, and was deprived of offence by the tact and 
courtesy with which Methuen met it. 

During the days which followed upon the Earle’s visit, 
it seemed to Anna that Philip had never shown himself 
more amiable, and again and again she referred to the 
reconciliation as an event which obviously gave him as 
much satisfaction as herself. Adrian seized upon the 
circumstance as giving social justification to the frequent 
visits he now paid to Gloucester Place, timing his calls 
at the hours when he pretty well knew Methuen would 
not be at home, and putting himself and his services en- 
tirely at Anna’s command, more especially as regarded 
the work going on in the house in South Audley Street. 

Partly through ignorance, but also partly through in- 
tention, Anna’s additions and alterations were assuming 
formidable proportions. . Comments dropped by Lady 
Andrew Pattison’s acrid tongue, or languid criticisms 
and suggestions of Earle’s, given without reflection, 
appealed so strongly to her mixed vanity and pride that 
she ruled her arrangements by them, with very little re- 
gard to the question of expense. 

It happened unfortunately that Philip, having given 
his orders with distinct brevity to the men employed, 
and carefully demonstrated to his wife the necessity of 
keeping within certain limits, dismissed the details of 
the matter from his mind. He was well content for 
Anna to find interest and amusement in the furnishing 
of her house ; to him it was a point of complete indiffer- 
ence. 

He felt increasingly — and character and education 
combined to make the result inevitable — that weariness 
and disrelish of fashionable society and the bondage of 
uncongenial domestic ties, which he had professed long 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


257 


years before to his uncle; and he availed himself, ac- 
cordingly, of all work and interest which took him out 
of himself — the harder, even the more distasteful, the 
better. 

He was almost as much Lord Sainsbury’s secretary as 
when an official tie had bound them together, and many 
hours in the day were often passed under his roof. He 
excused his partial neglect of Anna, on the plea that the 
fundamental want of sympathy between them must 
make his society oppressive to her, and that she had so 
far established her position and won friends of her own, 
to say nothing of her renewed relations with the Earles, 
court ladies, as to make her independent of his constant 
companionship. No girl could go wrong who was asso- 
ciated with Honor Aylmer and Miss Earle, and with 
whom it was a matter of social necessity to preserve the 
good opinion of his patron’s influential sister, Mrs. Au- 
chester; nor, he said to himself, whatever her faults, 
was Anna a girl likely to go wrong? 

He continued to regard Adrian’s visits with reserved 
displeasure, though ignorant of their extreme frequency 
and the practical form that they took; but under the 
circumstances of general reconciliation, it was not im- 
possible to put a veto upon them. Anna, he believed, 
ran no danger, and Earle was certainly beyond the 
power of his influence. 

Also, the soreness of his own heart was such as to un- 
fit him to play any intermediary part. It was as much 
as he could do to fulfil his own duty in life according 
to his notions of requirement, under the increasing exi- 
gency of circumstance. 

The dinner in Arlington Street had been duly eaten 
and repeated, and the Earles had in their turn dined in 
Gloucester Place. 

Philip, who had learnt a severe lesson from the weak- 
ness of which he considered himself to have been guilty 
in his first meeting with Honor in the Green Park, was 
fully master of himself before they met again. 

It had been his fixed purpose to avoid intercourse, but 
that had been overruled, making the difficulty of pre- 
serving the sacred secret of his love infinitely greater 
but even more imperative than before. He had reached 
the conclusion that this was only to be done in one way 
— a way that many men would have found impossible, 
but which was not so to a man whose faculties of self- 


258 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

repression and self-mastery had been trained and tested 
during long years of moral and spiritual discipline, and 
who viewed his life in the light of a daily sacrifice to 
God. It behoved him, he said to himself, to behave 
with the same cordial friendship toward Honor Aylmer 
as Anna had been accustomed to witness in the old days. 

So complete was his success in carrying out this pur- ' 
pose as to become almost a source of embarrassment 
and distress to Honor herself. He neither sought nor 
avoided her society, but took the opportunity as it fell 
with so exact a simulation of his former manner of half- 
tender, half-respectful distance as made the girl thrill 
with a strange blending of pleasure and pain. 

There was not a trace of the anguished avoidance 
which had pierced her soul at their first meeting; his 
eyes met hers and neither flinched nor softened; his 
voice took no different inflection when he spoke to her. 

Also, unconsciously, he scored another victory. He 
won Miss Earle’s reluctant favor — not, it must be owned, 
from any effort on his own part, but because she could 
not resist the feeling of approval and respect he excited 
in her mind by the equal perfection of his behavior to 
the two women who loved him. 

In her secret cogitations, however, Miss Earle often 
sighed and shook her head over the situation. There 
was a look of pathetic wistfulness in Honor’s eyes which 
touched her more than the forlorn sadness of the days 
just gone by ; and whatever might be the results of this 
renewed intercourse on the stronger nature of the man, 
she felt quite sure that it tasked, as she had known that 
it must, the tender endurance of the woman. 

At the end of July she succeeded in carrying Honor 
off with her for a long round of visits. Sir Walter and 
his son were to remain in town till the end of the session, 
and then to join them at a favorite country-house in the 
Highlands ; the Methuens proposing to go home to Me- 
thuen Place immediately on the rising of Parliament, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


259 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 


“ Oh world, where all things pass and naught abide! 

Oh lifej the long mutation, is it so ? 

Is it with life as with the body’s change ? 

Where e’en though better follow, good must pass, . . . 

And though the new stays, never both at once.” 

— R. Browning. 

There is no denying the fact that English country life 
draws heavily on physical and mental resources, and 
that when these are not present to meet the demand, the 
problem of how to make life worth living becomes a 
very serious one. 

There are certain conditions under which country life 
is pleasant — when the ancestral home is full of the 
vitality, hope, and promise of a young family, and the 
parents, still in their first youth, find their hearts in re- 
sponsive beat with the children’s exuberant joy and 
keen zest in living. Life is full enough when it grows 
deeper and wider with every new existence, and there 
is little chance of wearness when we live over again in 
the ambitions and hopes of our boys and our girls, who 
are so pathetically confident of winning what we have 
missed, and of carrying through the purposes which we 
have been forced to forego. 

And country life may also be sweet when there is 
enough sacred human love between husband and wife to 
gild the long summer days, and to brighten the sombre 
march of wintry hours. Where there is a sufficient com- 
munity of intellect and taste to breed an intimate sym- 
pathy on points of importance, and enough of diversity 
to guard from insipidity a life-long intercourse. When 
also the outside world is looked upon as the adjunct of 
a happiness otherwise sufficient, not the forlorn hope of 
exhausted conjugal patience. 

But it must be frankly conceded that neither Sir Philip 
nor Lady Methuen was qualified for its enjoyment. 

Anna was profoundly disappointed that their return 
to the old family seat had nothing of the nature of a 
triumph. No peals from church bells welcomed home 
the bride and bridegroom, nor was there any gathering 
even of respectful tenantry or obsequious servants. 

It is true old Austen himself came forward to open the 


26 o 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


carriage-door, pushing the younger footman on one side ; 
and Mrs. Gibson, in spotless kerchief and cap, stood 
awaiting them in the hall, looking as the housekeepers of 
Methuen Place had looked for generations past. Also, 
all the arrangements were as complete as willing hands 
and anxious hearts could make them. 

But Anna’s observation was right; there was no joy 
nor even cheerfulness to be perceived — the new mistress 
was an unwelcome guest. 

When Philip, taking her hand, led her up to Mrs. Gib- 
son, saying, “ I have brought home my wife at last; I 
know you will serve her as faithfully as you have served 
all those who have borne our name,” Anna threw up 
her head with a gesture of haughty impatience. 

It was as much as she could do to check the words of 
anger and defiance which the old woman’s aspect and 
manner excited. There was precisely the same hard, 
reluctant expression in her eyes when they fell upon her 
as had moved her hot displeasure in their last moment- 
ous interview. 

She had been obliged to endure it then, as she was 
obliged to endure it now ; but it only strengthened her 
purpose of future retaliation. 

Her husband’s solicitous kindness and air of almost 
affectionate regard irritated her only less than did the 
searching look which Mrs. Gibson dared to fasten upon 
her master’s face. 

Methuen, on his side, had been quite prepared for this 
vigilant scrutiny, springing from her intimate knowledge 
of the past, and prompted, as he well knew, by loyal de- 
votion to himself, but it was by no means the easiest 
conquest he had made. There are perhaps few things 
harder to ignore or evade than the unexpressed sypipa- 
thy of an inferior in possession of disagreeable facts. 

Mrs. Gibson courtsied profoundly, instinctively re- 
sponding to the quiet authority of Methuen’s manner; 
but as Anna had not spoken, it was unnecessary for her 
to try her reluctant tongue at a welcome. 

As soon as they were alone, even before she had taken 
off her travelling things — for Anna recognized no law of 
propriety or consideration where her passions were 
aroused — she turned to Philip and said, in the low sup- 
pressed voice which always marked her strongest excite- 
ment — 

“ Before we sit down to dinner, and begin our new life 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


261 


in this old place, Lady Methuen has one request to 
make — a promise to get — from its master. 

Philip waited. The pressure of the new life in the old 
place was already weighing upon his spirits. His pres- 
ent effort was to shut out the crowd of associations which 
every glance brought home to him with a poignancy 
which taught him that he had never estimated his sacri- 
fice, nor fully tasted his martyrdom till this hour of 
coming home. 

“ You do not answer,” she resumed, with sudden tears 
of passion in her eyes. “ I can see that your heart 
toward me is cold as a stone ; but — you are a gentleman, 
and — will not have your wife insulted.” 

“ You may feel quite sure on that point, Anna.” 

“ Then I demand,” she said, with an imperious sweep 
of her hand, ” that all these old servants shall be dis- 
missed. They — they know the story of my marriage. 
I will not read that knowledge in their faces.” 

She met his quiet glance with defiant steadfastness, 
and spoke like one who has thrown down the glove and 
challenges the enemy to single combat. 

” My dear Anna,” he answered, there are few things 
which I would not to do to allay such an apprehension 
as that — it cannot touch your self-respect rnore deeply 
than it touches mine. But it is not a question to discuss 
in the first moment of our return ” 

She interrupted him eagerly. 

“ I will not dine nor sleep till it has been discussed. 
One word is all I want — say they shall go, and I am 
satisfied.” 

“ Then, in one word, since you force me to a decision, 
I cannot say it. They have spent their lives in my 
uncle’s service, and were commended by him to my care 
on his deathbed, and it is out of my power to dismiss 
them. If you will let them, they will love and serve 
you as faithfully as they have loved and served those who 
have passed away.” 

He spoke with an exquisite gentleness, as if to disarm 
her opposition ; but she who listened to him was not to 
be won by any grace of manner when the substance of 
her desire was refused. 

“ That means that, although I am your wife, you take 
advantage of my friendlessness to deprive me of the 
authority which is my right. What do your pledges to 
the dead signify? You are bound by stronger ties to 


262 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


the living. Do you mean that I am to endure the covert 
insolence of that old woman, who looks at me as if she 
begrudged me my position, and who will refuse me the 
respect to which I am entitled? Dismiss Mrs. Gibson, 
and I will waive the rest.” 

“ Whenever you convince me she has failed in respect, 
Anna, Mrs. Gibson shall be dismissed ; but bear a little 
with the innocent self-importance of a faithful, spoilt 
old servant. She was my first friend at Methuen Place.” 

He smiled as he spoke, and held out his hand to draw 
her toward him, and to kiss the angry sullen face ; not 
indeed because he was moved by any impulse of affec- 
tion, but rather by the reverse consciousness of an in- 
creasing alienation, and therefore she should not see 
how her words and actions moved him. 

And Anna, who had never known from him, nor, in- 
deed, seen displayed to others, anything beyond this 
deliberate measured kindness, accepted it as the best he 
was able to give, while rebelling against the passionate 
craving which seemed to grow with his coldness until 
it threatened to exhaust the freshness and gladness of 
her youth. 

It was the strength of this conviction which gave such 
zest to her pursuit of social distraction ; but society was, 
as we have said before, sparse and scattered in the 
Skeffington neighborhood, and when the chief of the 
county families had driven the necessary ten or twelve 
miles to pay their respects to the foreign wife of the 
half-foreign young baronet, and a single dinner had been 
exchanged, dreariness settled down upon the scene. 
Miss Earle and Honor were not at Earlescourt, and 
Mrs. Sylvestre, though she had called upon her niece and 
invited her to visit them at the Vicarage, distinctly re- 
fused to allow Dolly to be her cousin’s guest at Methuen 
Place, fearing the pernicious influence of the master of 
the house. 

Methuen, anxiously and promptly aware of the ennui 
from which his wife suffered, made some attempt to 
awaken her interest in books, or art, or music, for which 
latter pursuits she had considerable natural talent, but 
her objection was ready — 

“ I am too good a judge of excellence to pass my own 
drawings; and who would sing and play to you, Philip? 
I will listen.” 

“I have given up the piano,” he said. “We will 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 263 

build an organ-chamber when — when there is no better 
claim on the money.” 

He himself was seeking out employment for his time 
with unresting solicitude. It was necessary to stamp 
out the recollections with which the gray old house was 
filled; the very atmosphere seemed charged with the 
eager, generous love of the fond old man who had gone 
down to the grave happy in the happiness he thought he 
had accomplished. Soon after his return, Methuen had 
naturally paid a visit to the room where Sir Giles had 
died, and had stood for a few moments gazing at the 
spot where he and Honor, kneeling side by side, had 
exchanged the vows and received the blessing which had 
shed a divine light in the very valley of the shadow of 
death; then, warned by the acuteness of the pang he 
suffered, even to the extent that a feeling of revolt 
stirred within his soul, he gave instructions to Mrs. 
Gibson that the room should be kept strictly locked in 
the future, and opened to no one’s inspection but his own. 

For the rest, he fulfilled Mrs. Sylvestre's worst appre- 
hensions by having the little dilapidated private chapel 
put in thorough repair, and enriching it with the numer- 
ous treasures of art he had carefully collected for this 
purpose during his recent residence abroad. 

Every step of the process was known at the vicarage 
— the decoration of the altar, with its costly draperies 
and still more costly accessories — the erection of the 
crucifix and the painting above it, the one a miracle of 
medieval art, the other a surperb Assumption, said to 
be by Perugino, and to be worth a year’s income — and 
the filling in of the fine old eastern window with ancient 
painted glass, on which the vicar himself gazed with 
unstinted admiration. Then followed the reconsecra- 
tion of the now perfect chapel by no less a personage 
than Father Florentius himself, who remained a whole 
week the guest of the new master of Methuen Place ; 
followed by a succession of services and a gathering of 
the few scattered members of the Roman communion in 
the vicinity, glad to avail themselves of the privileges 
for the first time offered within the memory of the pres- 
ent generation. All this involved the last straw of 
provocation — the institution of the domestic chaplain. 

It was Mrs. Sylvestre herself who brought home this 
pregnant piece of news. 

'‘I think, my dear,” she said, addressing the vicar 


264 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


with a neater and sharper accentuation even than usual, 
as she raised the heavy family teapot at the afternoon 
meal (dexterously graduating the strength of the infusion 
according to the prerogative of the recipient — “ I think 
you will now admit the wisdom of the course I have 
felt right to adopt in respect to Methuen Place. 1 thank 
God I have never been betrayed by my affection for 
Dolly into placing her in the way of temptation !” 

“My feeling was,” replied the vicar, a little impa” 
tiently, “ that Dolly would have got no harm there. 
Anna, unfortunately, has no religion worth speaking of, 
and Methuen would scrupulously have avoided the sub- 
ject. He does his best to gather his own sheep into the 
fold, but he has never shown any disposition to make 
proselytes.” 

“ What, may I ask, do you call the rebuilding and em- 
bellishment of his private chapel for daily idolatrous 
worship, to which all outsiders are welcomed; and the 
introduction of a full-blown Jesuit priest into his house- 
hold?” (Mrs. Sylvestre recognized but one order in the 
Roman communion.) “ You will find fewer worshippers 
in the parish church next Sunday, or I am very much 
mistaken. It is the thin end of the wedge.” 

“ Ah, I am sorry ; but if a man has a chapel he must 
have a priest, and it is hard to go seven miles to church 
all weathers. Besides, when all is said and done, we 
should wish to see Methuen have the courage of his 
opinions.” 

“ Good heavens !” exclaimed Mrs. Sylvestre, putting 
down the teapot with precipitation, and actuall}'' turning 
a little pale, “ you frighten me, Herbert ! One might 
almost think, to hear you, that you had a bias in that 
direction yourself.” 

“ Set your mind at rest, my dear — I am not of the stuff 
of which ’verts are made ; but I see the work that Methuen 
is doing here in Skeffington, and I know of the same 
kind of thing as going on at Crawford, after a century 
of indifference and neglect, and I cannot withhold my 
approval. Moreover, although he has refused the offered 
nomination of J. P. for the county, 1 am told he is about 
to offer himself for election to the Board of Guardians. 
Every gentleman w'ho is willing to serve his generation 
in that way deserves the thanks of the nation. It sh all 
be no fault of mine if we do not carry him, though the 
opposition will be very strong.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


265 


“ And you, as a clergyman of our loved Church, will 
abet the introduction of a Papist to the Board? Do you 
not see that he will undermine your influence on your 
own ground, and send his priests to contend for the 
souls of your paupers?" 

Mr. Sylvestre slightly shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘I don’t want to startle you, my dear; but the tinith 
is, I shall be very glad of additional help in the wards of 
the Union. Half the inmates of the house are Irish, 
and therefore Papists, and have hitherto been very badly 
looked after. As they turn a cold shoulder to my min- 
istrations, I shall be quite willing to pass them over to 
a Christian teacher of their own persuasion. Father 
Price was supposed to attend, but he is old and over- 
worked. Methuen will see now that they are better 
treated. I hear he has been at the workhouse more 
than once already.” 

Mrs. Sylvestre ’s tongue clave to the roof of her mouth; 
she was speechless with pain and consternation. 

“ Of course, "resumed the Vicar, " a great deal depends 
on the character of the priest. Price is a harmless 
nonentity. A* red-hot propagandist would be objection- 
able on all scores; but I fancy Methuen would be judi- 
cious in his choice. Did I understand you to say you 
had seen him?" 

“ I saw Sir Philip Methuen yesterday standing outside 
one of his own hovels in Skeffington talking to a Roman 
Catholic priest, and I naturally passed by on the other 
side of the way." She spoke with an air of severity. " I 
heard afterward from Mrs. Mitchell that he had been at 
the Place more than a week past, and that Miss P'os- 
ter’s pretty little cottage has been taken for his occupa- 
tion." 

“ Ah ! that looks like business ; we shall need to be on 
our guard. I thought Methuen would have liked to 
have had him under his own roof ; but no doubt there 
are objections. What did the man look like, my dear?" 

“ Look like !" repeated Mrs. Sylvestre, contemptuously ; 
“ have they ever any individuality? That is well planed 
out before they are sent about their business. He 
looks — as Father Florentius looks without his dignity, 
or as Philip Methuen himself with the beauty left out. 
They have all the same expression of arrogant seren- 
ity, as if every question were solved, and they held the 
keys of the spiritual kingdom." 


266 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Her face flushed as she spoke, and the vicar looked 
at her with a little surprise. 

“ Ah, well !" he answered, “ we are happy in knowing 
that such is not the case, and can afford to leave them 
to the discovery of their mistake ; but I scarcely think 
‘arrogant serenity’ describes the expression of Methuen’s 
face.” 

“ I see it too seldom to form any opinion,” replied 
Mrs. Sylvestre, with all the inconsequence of a perverse 
woman. “ It is hardly likely to be so, seeing he is Anna 
Trevelyan’s husband. By the way, I hear that Adrian 
Earle is come home at last ; his unfortunate brother must 
have been having a bad time of it lately.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ Anger is certainly a kind of baseness, as it appears well in the 
weakness of those subjects in whom it reigns. Men must not be bees: 

‘ Animasque in vulnere ponunt. ’ ” 

— Bacon: Essays, 

It needed a considerable effort on Philip Methuen’s 
part to pay his first visit to poor Oliver Earle. He knew 
that the young man was more or less acquainted with 
the miserable circumstances of his marriage ; and it was 
the instinct of his nature to conceal his private pain and 
grief. Even sympathy was unpalatable to his temper; 
and in this case he had good reason to believe that if 
sympathy existed, it would be largely qualified by re- 
sentment. 

He had by this time provided himself with so much 
work to do that he had excused his reluctance on that 
score; also the visit of Florentius had intervened — an 
event which, to a man living as he did an inner life apart 
from those around him, was as refreshing as water- 
springs in a dry and thirsty land. 

The circumstance of Anna having carelessly spoken 
of going herself to Earlescourt to see Oliver, brought 
Philip’s hesitation to an end. It was absolutely neces- 
sary that the boy’s silence should be secured on a matter 
which, rightly or wrongly, Methuen held it necessary 
to conceal. 

It was late in the afternoon of a dull September day 
when he at last found himself at Earlescourt, within a 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 267 

week or two of the date a year ago, when he had paid 
his farewell visit to Honor on the eve of his departure 
for town. He had then been in possession of a happiness 
so complete, and so fine in its completeness, as only a 
few men touch in a generation, and it had been shattered 
by a blow which still seemed to him brutal. Up to this 
hour he had never accepted his fate — only endured it. 
The power of association over some minds is feeble; 
over others it maintains a relentless and indestructible 
hold, so that the soul is tied and bound by the chain of 
immortal pain and loss. 

As Methuen got off his horse and glanced through the 
gathering gloom toward the familiar gardens, where he 
and she had walked in their unspeakable joy, and then 
entered the house and passed the closed door of the 
room where he had carried out his renunciation, his face 
darkened, and the dull sense of habitual depression 
started almost into mutiny against pain. If he had not 
already sent a servant forward to announce his visit to 
Oliver, he would even then have turned and left the 
house without carrying out his purpose. 

Oliver was lying as usual on a couch, coiled up under 
the covering which in his solitary hours he never relin- 
quished, and in an attitude which showed him to be ill 
at ease. His face had been toward the wall, but he 
turned with difficulty as the man softly closed the door 
behind him, and he became aware that Philip had en- 
tered the room. 

Philip went close up to him, and saw that the sensitive 
frame was twitching with suppressed excitement, and 
that the eyes which looked into his own were sullen and 
resentful. The bitterness he had felt a few moments 
before died out as he looked down upon the suffering, 
incapable creature before him, and realized that all the 
months of change and travel which he had passed since 
their last meeting, had been for the most part endured 
by Oliver within the weary circuit of that room — upon 
that couch of pain. The old accent of sweetness and 
pity touched his voice as he said : 

“ I see I am not welcome. It is enough for you to say 
the word, and I need never enter this room again.” 

Oliver continued to gaze at him steadfastly, then mut- 
tered under his breath : 

“ There is not a member of this family, Philip Meth- 
uen, but wishes you never had entered this room.” 


268 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


Ah !” answered Methuen, “ is that the feeling of your 
mind toward me ?” 

He paused and turned a little aside, hesitating what 
course he should adopt. To ignore Oliver’s meaning, 
or to resent it, seemed almost impossible to him, when 
he could not fail to perceive that every nerve of the 
young man’s body and mind was alive with perilous 
sensibility ; also, it was not very hard to forgive a re- 
sentment based on the strength of his loyalty toward 
Honor Aylmer. 

“ If I had known,” he resumed, “ that you did not care 
to see me again, I would gladly have spared us both the 
pain of this interview. I know that you are in posses- 
sion of facts which I should have gladly kept from you ; 
but, under any circumstances, you will allow that they 
do not admit of discussion between us.” 

The careful reserve of his manner had an unfortunate 
effect upon Oliver. 

“ Is that your line?” he answered, in his shrill, excru- 
ciating voice. “ Then be warned at once, for I will not 
spare you! You were welcomed in this house like a 
brother, and you have paid us back by spoiling the life 
of every member of it. You have taken away from 
Adrian the girl he wanted and you didn’t, although you 
knew the doing of it would well-nigh break Honor Ayl- 
mer’s heart.” 

The mention of her name seemed for a moment to 
check the rage of the speaker. He broke off. 

“ Honor !” he repeated ; “ to speak of her to you is an 
outrage, and yet I will speak” — answering some gesture 
of deprecation from the other. “ Shall I ever forget 
how she knelt by this sofa weeping, and told me her 
miserable story, with no thought of self, but all divine 
pity for you? God! how I wished I were a man instead 
of the useless boy I am, and could have thrashed or 
killed you!” 

Then, as Methuen made no answer, he went on still 
more vehemently: 

“ Ever since that hour, I have been brooding 'in my 
mind how I could pay you back, even when I believed 
you were as miserable as you had made her, and cursed 
the hour when you were born. It was only left for you 
to show me that you were reconciled to your shame — not 
miserable — to take away the last shred of reluctance 
from my mind. You set a high value on your matrimo- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


269 


nial peace and quiet, but I will spoil them for you. I 
know no woman in whom the sleeping devils of jealousy 
and revenge would wake to better purpose than in Anna 
Trevelyan.” 

The threat was so unexpected yet so easy of fulfil- 
ment, embodying as it did v/hat Methuen considered the 
supreme prospective calamity of his life, that, in spite 
of his firmness, he started a little and changed color. 

Oliver laughed, in a low, mocking, provocative way. 

“ You will not stoop,” he said,“ to beg for mercy?” 

“ Not for myself,” was the answer, and the man’s voice 
shook a little ; “ but there is no humiliation I would not 
accept to prevent you from causing additional pain to — 
to her we both love.” 

“ That is out of my power — you have left me nothing 
to inflict. Besides, what harm could come to her, shut 
in as she is by the love of us all? You see, abject crip- 
ple as I am, I am obliged to put your punishment in the 
hands of a woman! Anna, mad with rage and disap- 
pointment, will — what shall we say? — recognize and re- 
venge Honor’s wrongs.” 

Undoubtedly Methuen was strongly moved. 

It suddenly seemed as if the strenuously guarded de- 
cencies of his daily life were to be sacrificed to the 
purposeless malice of a boy. He knew enough of his 
wife’s natural temper to be aware that, under the threat- 
ened provocation, any extremity of passionate unreason 
was to be apprehended. He shrank with extreme repug- 
nance from the notion of Anna’s knowledge of the real 
state of his heart and character, and of the supreme sac- 
rifice her madness had exacted. It would be the wanton 
violation of all that which he would almost have given 
his life to keep inviolate. To hear Honor’s name pro- 
faned on her lips, and the love he held as sacred the mark 
of her scorn and rage, would change the dull purgatory of 
his present existence into an active hell. He had a sick- 
ening consciousness that there is scarcely any limit to 
the pain, shame, and humiliation which a jealous and 
vindictive woman is able to inflict on a proud and sen- 
sitive man. Also, even beyond all this, was the vague 
misgiving of which he was conscious, that it might be 
in his wife’s power to hurt the peace, or honor, or safety 
of the woman whom she had wronged. 

He decided promptly that pride and self-respect must 
yield to the greater emergency. 

18 


270 


THE STORY OF PHILIR METHUEN. 


“ Oliver,” he said, again going up to the couch where 
he lay, twisting and writhing in intolerable excitement, 
“ let me understand exaclty what you mean. Do you 
threaten to tell Lady Methuen the fact of my engagement 
to Miss Aylmer? If you do, I don’t hesitate to own you 
will do me the cruellest injury one man can inflict on 
another, and you will drive Anna to desperation. But 
what will you gain when you have done it? You can 
not do it without parting with every shred of honor and 
conscience. Are you so utterly changed? If you are 
bent on revenge, find some other way, where at least I 
shall suffer alone.” 

” Ah !” was the answer ; “ then, after all, I have brought 
you to your knees. But it is no good. I do not say I 
will tell Anna Methuen to-day or to-morrow ; but I will 
tell her sooner or later, as the mood takes me. I will 
see her and talk to her first, so as to find out exactly the 
state of her mind toward you, and where I can plant the 
blow with most effect. You offer me an inducement 
when you say I shall spoil your life — that is the future 
aim of mine.” 

There was a vindictive passion in his face and a note of 
triumph in his voice which went beyond Methuen’s com- 
prehension. There was also something weird and un- 
natural in the idea that his own moral strength and 
resolution lay at the mercy of this frail emotional 
creature. He put out his hand and grasped Oliver’s 
shoulder, partly from the instinct which prompts to 
physical contact under the coercion of appeal, partly to 
restrain the spasmodic movements which irritated the 
tension of his nerves. 

” It is impossible to believe,” he said, “ that you can 
be guilty of this vileness from no other motive than to 
punish an involuntary wrong. Will she thank you?” — 
but here Oliver, with a passionate expletive, wrenched 
himself away from him. 

” Don’t think to move me by pointing out that I can 
only strike you through her. That is the goad which 
pricks me. She must bear a little more, that you may 
get your deserts. Come, Methuen, I will consent to 
make things clearer: you have thrown away the thing 
that was the very core and kernel of my life. It is a 
ridiculous notion, isn’t it, that a degraded cripple like 
me should have a man’s heart in his breast, and dare to 
love the girl who has been the angel of his life, like a 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


271 


goblin in a fairy-tale? But sometimes, you know, in 
such cases as mine, passion and instinct are in advance 
of years and growth ; and I would have you understand 
that my love for Honor has long been of the kind that 
torments and consumes. What yours was, God knows ! 
but I know that she gave you in return her whole soul 
and strength, keeping nothing back ; and I was forced 
to be an eye-witness of it all. Maybe other men besides 
yourself can suffer, and hold their tongues. Don’t pity 
me ; that is an insult I will not endure from you. I can 
fight my own battles.” 

He had raised himself on his arm in the strength of 
his excitement, and Philip, comprehending the state of 
his mind, forbore to show by look or word the compas- 
sion which he felt. He went slowly back to the hearth 
and sat down with folded arms, waiting for the other to 
speak again. He knew enough of Oliver’s idiosyncrasy 
to be quite aware that nothing was to be expected from 
him under the stress of personal injury. The matter was 
closed between them. No further appeal was possible. 

‘‘ You do well to be quiet,” resumed Oliver. “ I kept 
myself from hating you, so long as you were necessary 
to Honor’s happiness. I would even have lived under 
your roof, as you proposed, and sunned my frozen life in 
her dear presence — still not hating you, because you 
were the source of her joy. But — when you killed that 
— without pity, and breaking a deathbed oath — my mind 
was . set free. There is not a reptile that crawls on the 
face of the earth that is so obnoxious to me as you are. 
I cannot crush you, for I am a wretched worm myself ; 
but I will set one on that will worry out your life.” 

He threw himself back, as if exhausted, on his couch. 

“ I have done ! Have you anything to answer?” 

“ Nothing in the way of personal protest, and any ex- 
pression of feeling would be out of place.” 

‘‘ Nothing either in the way of explanation or self-de- 
fence. 

“ To you?” asked Methuen, with a quietness which 
had more effect than any burst of anger or scorn. 

What would your boy’s judgment be worth of the 
necessity which was forced upon me? No; I have noth- 
ing to say to you.” 

He got up and glanced round the room preparatory to 
departure, but was careful that his face expressed noth- 
ing of the stern and bitter memories the scene evoked. 


£72 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

“ I shall never come here again unless you send for 
me,” he said. “ I will go now. It would be a mockery 
to say good-by.” 

‘‘ But you will prevent Anna Methuen from comnig to 
see me? Not that it will balk my purpose. I have a 
note from her to-day. The post is always open, and is 
hard to watch efficiently.” 

I shall make no attempt, Oliver, either to restrain 
Lady Methuen’s movements or to circumvent your 
malice. Do your worst.” And he opened the door and 
went out. 

It is not only the great troubles of life that come upon 
us in troops, but those lesser ignoble cares which warp 
our nature as well as wound it. 

When Methuen returned from Earlescourt it v/as al- 
ready late, and close upon the dinner-hour, so that he 
went at once to his dressing-room. A fire had been 
lighted there ; and a certain antique bronze lamp of ex- 
quisite workmanship, which had always stood on his late 
uncle’s writing-table, and been esteemed by him as one 
of his most precious possessions, shed a soft, subdued 
brightness on the substantial comfort of the room. 

Methuen was by nature, training, and principle an 
ascetic; but, like otehr men in a similar position, he 
concealed his physical austerities with an ingenuity 
and success worthy, it may be thought, of a better 
cause. 

Obeying now a natural impulse — for the night was 
raw and cold, and his whole tone of mind one of pro- 
found discouragement — he sat down close by the fire, 
and took up again the broken thread of his thought. It 
was soon interrupted by a knock at the door, to whicli 
he answered by a careless “ Come in !” supposing it to 
be his servant Duncan, and was both surprised and dis- 
concerted at the unexpected entrance of Anna. Without 
any specific arrangement on the subject, it was practically 
understood that Methuen wished the privacy of his own 
apartments to be strictly observed, and in fact his wife 
had scarcely entered this room before. She wore a long 
white dressing-gown of some woollen stuff, soft and fine 
as silk, and her magnificent hair was loose, and hung in 
a sheeny rippling mass almost to her knees. 

Philip rose at once, partly from the instinct of cour- 
tesy, partly from that of the sleepless vigilance he al- 
ways preserved in his intercourse with his wife. He 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


273 


also knew from experience that Anna had either some 
grievance to disclose or some petition to offer, and his 
heart always closed against the feminine wiles it was 
her habit on such occasions to display. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said coldly, “ I thought it was 
Duncan. Will you not sit down?” He placed a chair. 

“ No,” she answered, looking smilingly around her, “ I 
will not take your seat. How comfortable the room 
looks! I like it infinitely better than mine, after all. I 
had no idea, Philip, you knew so well how to take care 
of yourself. Please sit down again ; I want to speak to 
you about something, and cannot dress or dine till the 
matter is settled. You are not impatient for dinner, I 
hope?” 

“No; lam quite at your service.” And he resumed 
his seat, rapidly forecasting what was coming. 

Anna knelt down on the rug by his side, her snowy 
robes fioating far behind her, and her hair, glowing like 
bronze in the light of the fire, sweeping the floor. She 
stretched out one of her beautiful hands to the pleasant 
warmth, and laid the other upon her husband’s knee, 
turning up her alluring face to his. 

“ You must not be angry at what I am going to tell 
you,” she said. “I have given Mrs. Gibson her dis- 
missal. She was insolent, and I would not bear it. It 
is a great relief to my mind.” 

She paused and dropped her eyes at the last words, 
but presently looked up again on finding that he made 
no answer. 

“ You cannot mean,” she went on with growing eager- 
ness, and baffled, as she often was, by the reserved ex- 
pression of his face, “ so to humiliate me and compromise 
my authority in the house, as to interfere between me 
and this woman? If you were to revoke my decision, I 
should be the laughing-stock of the servants’ hall. Say 
that you will not do that, Philip — that you consent that 
she shall go. I hate her.” 

“ Your hatred is shameful,” he said at last, “ and your 
professions of affection for myself are an insult. There 
are few ways in which you could have hurt me more 
effectually.” 

“ Ah !” she said insolently, and rising to her full height 
the better to confront him, “ I knew you would be angry, 
but was scarcely prepared for such white heat as this. 
Is this woman’s comfort of more consequence to you 


274 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


than mine? Because she grovels at your feet — as you 
would like your wife to do — you are blind to the fact 
that she dares to treat me as your inferior — as one raised 
by your condescension to a dignity which I did not de- 
serve. My hatred is not shamful — it is justified at all 
points.*’ 

“We will not dispute about words,” he answered, 
“ but consider the facts of the case. Why should you 
resent so strongly the sort of motherly solicitude that a 
woman of her age and experience would naturally feel 
toward a girl who is new to the cares and duties of a 
large household? It should touch your heart, Anna, not 
offend your pride. When I first came to this house,” he 
added, trying even against the natural movement of his 
mind to win her, “ Mrs. Gibson never wearied of instruct- 
ing and warning me as to the things 1 should do and 
leave undone. Now she transfers her anxieties to you 
as the greater stranger. Forgive her, dear ! Make 
friends with her again — I will not say for my sake, but 
for the sake of him whose memory ought to have weight 
with you.” 

Anna’s pale cheek burned with a sudden flame of 
color ; tears, not of submission but of passionate anger, 
came into her eyes. 

“ Do you know,” she cried sharply, “ you called me 
dear2 Do you also know I never remember your calling 
me so before? And the first time you use the word is to 
cajole me into sacrificing my self-respect to your will and 
pleasure. No, no; soft fool as I am where you are con- 
cerned, I am scarcely to be won by a bribe so plain and 
pitiful as that. I would rather cut off this hand,” sur- 
veying it as she spoke, “ than humble myself to make 
terms with Phebe Gibson. She shall end her days else- 
where.” 

“Yes,” he said, in a low tone, “under my care and 
consoled by my devotion.” 

She looked at him defiantly, though her heart quailed 
a little as she met his eyes. There was not so much 
passion as pain in them ; but the pain, she thought, arose 
chiefly from the added sense of alienation from herself. 

Nor did she make any mistake in this conclusion: the 
disposition she revealed excited in his mind a moral 
recoil inevitable as when the absence of the sun destroys 
light and warmth. 

Still the matter in question not only touched his heart 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


275 


profoundly, but his sense of duty and responsibility, in 
comparison with which his personal pride was held of 
no account. What she required of him was an act of 
outrage and disloyalty to the dead. 

“ Let me speak to her, Anna,” he began again passing 
over all the ignoble provocations of her speech. I will 
take care of your dignity, and insist upon the fullest 
apology wherever she has failed, however unintention- 
ally, in respect.” 

“The affair is finished,” was her answer. “I have 
provided against all such contingencies. The woman 
would not stay even if you were to urge her — that is, if 
you were capable of insulting your wife in that fashion.” 

“ Then there is nothing more to say,” he said sternly. 
“ You have won once more, Anna; there are no weapons 
so irresistible as those of a relentless selfishness.” 

He got up from his chair and opened the door for her. 

“ Excuse my dismissing you ; but I hear the dinner- 
bell, and it is scarcely worth while to break the heart of 
another old servant by letting the dinner spoil. I can 
be ready in ten minutes.” 

Instead of advancing, she clasped her hands together 
as if in supplication. 

“ You are vefy angry,” she murmured; and there was 
a quiver in her voice, and a pathetic droop of the beauti- 
ful head. 

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I am very angry — so angry 
that you will do wisely not to try and deprecate my 
anger. You poison the wounds you inflict when you 
offer your false sighs and tears to heal them.” 

He stood waiting for her to go out, with an air of 
authority she did not choose to resist ; but as she passed 
him she looked into his face, with her own divided be- 
tween passion and pain. 

“You hurt me more than you know,”she whispered. 
“ I would to God I did not love you I” 


276 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Alas, thou foolish one! Alike unfit 
For healthy joy and salutary pain: 

Thou knowest the chase useless, and ag-ain 
Turnest to follow it. 

— C. ROSSETTI. 

It was an unfortunate circumstance in Lady Methuen’s 
life that the habitual burden of ennui and disappoint- 
ment which she felt was aggravated at this time by the 
coldness arising from the quarrel with her husband. 
Philip treated her as a mattter of course with perfect con- 
sideration, but he unquestionably relaxed a little in the 
unfailing attention to her will and pleasure to which she 
had grown accustomed ; and in addition to this, he had 
committed himself to so much out-of-door labor and su- 
pervision of labor thahhe was often absent from home 
the chief part of the day. 

True, if he had been at home they would not have 
spent their time together. He had tried in vain, as we 
have said before, to interest her in books or study of any 
description — a modem French novel, or ‘the volume she 
possessed of the poems of Leopardi, were the only 
literature she cared for. 

He had suggested (simply from the sense he enter- 
tained of the duty of being in her company) that she 
should help him in certain matters of antiquarian research 
in which he was engaged in Lord Sainsbury’s interest, 
but she refused almost with indignation. 

Labor, without some personal end to gain, seemed to 
her as absurd as distasteful. If Philip would have con- 
sented to idle with her over the piano, or to play the 
lover with her in her morning-room, what new dis- 
coveries of allurement and charm she could have made 
him, and how effectually she would have cast and riveted 
his chains! but to this he showed no inclination to con- 
sent ; and in default, and still smarting under the recol- 
lection of the words he had spoken, she gave herself up 
to the distractions lying close at hand. 

Yes; Adrian Earle was at home again, and that in 
the absence of the ladies of his family. What wonder 
was it that he constantly turned his horse’s head in the 
direction of Methuen Place, ostensibly to visit the mas- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


277 


ter of the house, for whom he always solicitously in- 
quired, but in reality to while away the dull hours in 
Anna’s brilliant society? 

He was always welcome, for she was bored to death 
by solitude and vexation of spirit, and never failed to 
read in his mobile, vivid face that here at least the power 
of her beauty and charm was undiminished. So intimate 
had been their former relations, and so minute and pa- 
tient was Adrian’s sympathy, that Anna exercised little 
reserve in respect to her domestic discontent. She did 
not, from a natural pride, ground it upon her husband’s 
fundamental indifference, but upon the constitutional 
defects of his character and his acquired insensibility to 
pleasure and self-indulgence — upon the divergence of 
their pursuits, and the consequent solitude which re- 
sulted — and every complaint she uttered, by proving to 
Adrian the undiminished hold the love of her life still 
had over her heart, helped to irritate and inflame his 
own. 

When, he asked himself, would the time come when 
Anna would forego her infatuated fondness for the man 
who ignored and neglected her, and fall back for conso- 
lation on what it was in his power to offer? What that 
was he did not stop to discriminate : at any rate, he said 
to himself, he only hurt his own peace and compromised 
his own future by nursing his forlorn passion ; she was 
guaranteed from injury only too effectually. 

Also, on several occasions, Anna had driven over to 
Earlescourt to visit Oliver ; and it would have been a 
great mortification to Adrian could he have known that 
the proud, dissatisfied, restless girl found his brother’s 
society more stimulating than his own. 

Oliver showed a curious interest in all the details of 
Anna’s experience, and questioned her with eager per- 
tinacity on matters which Adrian’s finer sense would 
not have ventured to approach. Then there was always 
so much stress of nervous mental activity about him, 

^ that all those who were subjected to it yielded their best 
under his strenuous pressure. Anna fell back into the 
habit of her old improvisations and recitals, much more 
animated by Oliver’s sharp criticisms than by Adrian’s 
ardent if unexpressed admiration. 

For Oliver’s behoof Anna also consented to exercise 
her rare talent of mimicry, that took all forms, from a 
sharply discriminated reproduction of the singers, musi- 


278 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


cians, and actors of the day, to a spiteful caricature of 
personal friends and relations. 

Shouts of shrill laughter and applause rewarded her 
for these exertions ; but to Adrian such exhibitions were 
distasteful. He thought them derogatory, and even 
ventured to expostulate with her on the subject. 

“ Derogatory !” she repeated contemptuously ; “ I hold 
nothing derogatory which helps to put wings to the 
leaden feet of old Time. You know I have no ideals to 
work up to.” 

“No,” said Adrian, leaning toward her, and speaking 
in a passionate whisper, “you fulfil them.” 

“ Ah !” she answered, with that careless touch of scorn 
in her voice which always made him wince, “ you re- 
mind me you were once my lover ; but such speeches do 
not please me.” 

Here Oliver interposed. 

“ Have you ever shown Philip Methuen how well you 
can do it, Anna? or is he in happy ignorance of his wife’s 
talents? Would it be too great a sacrifice to your feel- 
ings to show us how he looks and moves and speaks? — 
you have had opportunities for an exhaustive study.” 

“ I could do it — to perfection,” was her answer: “ but I 
must draw the line somewhere and I draw it there. Oh, 
yes, he knows I can act, for he has seen me.” 

“ And he swelled the paean of praise?” 

“ Why not, Oliver? He said I had a great gift, and 
that it was natural I should like to exercise it.” 

“ But that personally he objected to such exhibitions?” 

“No, he did not say that,” returned Anna, a little 
wearily; “he is not illiberal.” 

Oliver laughed his low, mocking laugh. 

“ Is not the transformation edifying, Adrian? — Anna 
Trevelyan in the character of Beatrice — ‘taming my 
wild heart to his loving hand’! Only,” dropping his 
voice, “ in this case there would be a marked discrepancy 
in the text.” 

Anna looked up sharply. All weariness had disap- 
peared from her face, which was alight with anger. 

“You are insolent,” she said, “as always; but 
another time — when we are alone — you shall tell me 
what you mean. I am going home now.” 

Adrian saw the pain that lay behind the passion, and 
his love justified itself in the generous unselfishness of 
his interference. “You do Oliver too much honor,” he 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


279 


said, “ to take notice of anything he says. He has no 
meaning beyond his general desire to make every one 
as uncomfortable as himself. Do you know my aunt 
and Honor come home on Saturday?” 

“ I know it, and am very glad to know it.” 

There was unusual softness in her manner, that made 
his heart yearn over her. Was she brooding over the 
old trouble which Oliver’s brutal words had quickened? 

With that wistful look in her eyes which he remem- 
bered so well of old, he was almost willing that she 
should be satisfied after her own heart — not his. 

When she approached Oliver to bid him good-by, 
she leaned over the low cushions on which he was 
stretched in front of the fire, and whispered : 

“ You shall tell me what you mean before many days 
are over.” 

“ The sooner the better,” he answered in the same 
tone. “ There is no time to lose ; come again to-mor- 
row. I have a secret in keeping that I am bound to dis- 
close before Honor Aylmer comes home.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“ The stage is more beholden to love than the life of man: for as to 
the stage, love is ever matter of comedies, and now and then of trage- 
dies; but in life it does much mischief; sometimes like a siren, some- 
times like a fury.”— Bacon: Essays, 

There is a terrible uniformity in Nature and in Life. 

It so happened, by one of those bizarre coincidences 
which only gather importance from their consequences, 
that the day on which Anna returned home from her 
next visit to Oliver Earle corresponded precisely in date 
to that on which, a year ago, she had followed Philip 
Methuen to London. 

Even the weather was of a like description : the half- 
stripped woods had the same dank and forlorn aspect ; 
the atmosphere was heavily charged with moisture, hold- 
ing mist and vapor in suspense, and shrouded the distant 
landscape with an impenetrable veil. Drops of water 
hung from the point of every leaf which still maintained 
its hold on bough and twig, and stood in tiny pools on 
the level surfaces of rail or fence — all the autumnal 
glory of color was washed out. A gray pall seemed to 


28 o 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


invest the old mansion-house of Methuen Place, and to 
beat down the smoke of its many chimneys. 

Oliver Earle had accepted Methuen’s challenge, and 
done his worst. He had not only told his tale, but had 
omitted no point of exacerbation in the telling of it. He 
had insisted, with cruel pertinacity, not only on the 
reality of Philip’s love for. Honor, but on the passionate 
force and fire of that love, and on the element of inde- 
structibility which it contained. 

He had even reminded the girl of some of her own 
contemptuous criticisms on the cold moderation of her 
husband’s character, and mocked her conclusions from 
his own accurate observation that Methuen was as capa- 
ble as other men of the follies and extravagances of 
love. 

He told her, which was not precisely true, that the 
wedding-day had been fixed when Methuen went up to 
town, and that only a fortnight divided him from his fe- 
licity when her own action destroyed it forever. 

The manner in which Anna received the intelligence 
surprised and baffied him a little: he had expected some 
passionate outburst — eager questionings and denials, 
and ungoverned fury. He had often seen her under the 
infiuence of passion, and had prepared himself for simi- 
lar manifestations, only stronger in degree. 

But she sat in the full focus of his vision, silent and 
motionless, with no other sign of feeling than the grow- 
ing pallor of her face, the gleam in her dilating eyes, 
which never swerved from him while he was speaking, 
and the tension of her ungloved hands clasped in her 
lap. Now and then the breath came in great gasps from 
between her parted lips, but still no words followed. 
True, there was small need for her to ask questions, for 
Oliver, with inhuman hardness of heart, not only obvi- 
ously told her all he knew, but offered suggestions and 
impressions of facts. 

“The crowning marvel to my mind,” he said in con- 
clusion, as he passed his handkerchief over his brows, 
wet with the dews of intense excitement, “ is that any 
feminine creature could have allowed herself to be so 
grossly deceived as you! I mean that Nature might 
have suggested that one cause only could have fortified 
the man against such attractions as yours.” 

Anna stood up; she had thrown off her plumed hat, 
loosened her heavy cloak, and drawn off her gloves on 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


281 


first enterinpf the room, and now she began hastily to 
reassume them, as if in readiness for departure. 

Oliver, who was watching her keenly, thought her 
beauty was never more superb than as she thus stood 
before him, speechless still, but erect and defiant, her 
face white and stern, and lighted by the sombre fire of 
her eyes. The hands which clutched the fastenings of 
her cloak shook almost spasmodically; but she com- 
pelled them to their office, and raised and placed her hat 
on her head with deliberate intention. 

Then she came to the foot of his sofa : he could see 
the convulsive heaving of her throat, and the supreme 
effort it cost her to speak without breaking down ; but 
she succeeded. 

“ Whom do you hate?” she said, and her voice had an 
unnatural harshness — ” Philip Methuen or me?” 

“ Him !” answered Oliver sullenly, a little daunted by 
the intense anguish of her face. ” I have good reason 
to hate him, and — I have put his punishment into your 
hands.” 

” Into mine !” she repeated, with a sort of hysteric 
laugh — “ his punishment? And what of the other?” 

“ Of Honor?” said Oliver, and he turned a little pale ; 
“You cannot touch Honor, and you would not if you 
could!” 

She looked at him with the heavy lashes dropped over 
her lengthening gaze, and an indefinable expression 
came into her face. 

“I think I understand,” she said. “Honor is loved 
not — not only by — by Philip, but by you, malignant, 
misshapen little devil as you are ! But rest satisfied 1 I 
mean to accept the work you have given me to do.” 

And she nodded, and went out of the room. 

She had not thought about ordering her carriage, and 
when she got downstairs she found the coachman had 
taken out the horses, supposing she was likely to stay 
for hours, as was her custom. She left word that he 
was to make haste and follow her, and she would walk 
on in the direction of home. 

But she had not gone many paces beyond the grounds, 
walking rapidly in her strong excitement, when she felt 
her strength suddenly collapse, and she was obliged to 
stop and lean against an adjacent gate for support. The 
damp mist wrapped her round and saturated her heavy 
clothing, and the wet ground soaked the thin shoes she 


282 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


wore. She had the feeling which comes to all of us in 
moments of supreme suffering, of being outcast and 
deserted, as on that other day when she had stood in 
her despair on the platform of Waterloo Station. 

“ But I am more miserable !” said the girl, half aloud 
to herself, and lifting her hands instinctively to her ach- 
ing head. “ Then I was horribly afraid, but I had hope 
at the bottom ; now ” 

The word broke from her lips like the cry of some 
wounded animal. She was suffering the most exquisite 
tortures known to humanity: those pangs which have 
transformed the hero into an assassin, and invested mur- 
der with the sanctity of a religious rite. 

Her misery seemed to assume unnatural and tragic 
proportions in her mind : so great was the pressure of it 
that she felt as if she must send up the voice of her 
despair into a cry loud enough to reach the empty 
heavens, and make the dull earth tremble on its axis. 
Hope was shut out of her life ! There was a barrier be- 
tween her and her husband that no love, no patience, no 
energy of endurance and effort could break down. Who 
but herself knew what she had suffered and condoned 
on the score of his insensibility and coldness — picking up 
the crumbs of his kindness, when her heart was craving 
for living bread with a hunger he refused to appease? 

She heard the distant sound of carriage-wheels, and 
made an effort to walk on to avoid observation. When 
the vehicle overtook her she stumbled as she got into it, 
for her eyelids burned above her dazed and tearless eyes, 
and it seemed as if she saw nothing clearly or in due 
proportion. 

As they approached her own house, she received 
almost unconsciously the weird impression of a former 
experience — a mental difficulty in distinguishing Now 
from Then. The incidents of that other terrible day rose 
before her mind’s eye with preternatural vividness. 

She saw Philip Methuen as he had crossed the platform 
at Trichester in the perfection of his manhood, radiant 
with the joy of his love ; she remembered the sweetness 
of his lips, the gladness in his eyes ; and from that hour 
to this his face had never worn that look, because — it 
had looked only upon her ! 

She — passionate above the feeble strength of most 
women, and so beautiful as to be, as it were, type and 
crown of her sex — sufficed only to harden his heart and 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 283 


freeze the blood in his veins. And while she had chafed, 
fainted, and endured under this yoke of abstinence and 
denial, telling herself it was the defective nature of the 
man she adored, he was as capable as herself of the fires 
of love, and hated her because she had torn him from 
the arms of another. 

And that other? Ah, God ! there, at least at present, 
her thoughts must not rest, if she were to keep madness 
out of her brain, only— only — to hurt her, to make her 
suffer ! 

The passions of the race are perennial and keep the 
same channels ; and the vengeance which has instigated 
so many crimes at once great and pitiful, surged in the 
breast of this poor nineteenth-century wife. 

She had got home by this time and gone to her dress- 
ing-room, and her maid, who had relieved her of her wet 
cloak, was now kneeling at her feet removing her soaked 
shoes and stockings, and marvelling much at the condi- 
tion of her mistress. There was no fellowship between 
the two, as often exists in such intimate relations — for 
Anna was always haughty and overbearing to her in- 
feriors, and the woman ventured on no remark, and the 
mistress vouchsafed no explanation. 

“ Is Sir Philip in the house?” she asked presently. 

“Pardon, my lady; I had forgotten, seeing my lady 
so wet and tired. He went out about an hour ago, and 
left a note for my lady, to be given as soon as she 
came in.” 

The note contained only a few lines saying he had 
business at Trichester, and should dine and sleep at a 
friend’s house, returning the next day; but it was writ- 
ten in Italian, as she always preferred him to write, and 
had a gracious, pleasant turn of expression. Anna, who 
had dismissed her maid before opening it, let it fall 
suddenly from her fingers as though it had stung her. 

Jealousy and suspicion are passions of matchless in- 
genuity and resource; the idea instantly occurred to 
her mind that he knew as well as herself that the next 
day — Saturday — was the day of Miss Earle’s and Honor’s 
return, and that he designed to meet his love. 

For a moment Anna even contemplated the verifica- 
tion of this suspicion ; but finally dropped the notion as 
impracticable and to no purpose, and fell back into her 
former mood of mutinous misery. 

She refused dinner, and had a cup bf chocolate and 


284 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


some dry toast brought to her dressing-room ; and then 
slowly, as the first paroxysms of her passion abated, she 
set her mind deliberately to the solving of one problem — 
how to revenge her wrongs upon the wrong-doers. 

So deep-rooted was Anna’s impression of her inalien- 
able early rights over Philip Methuen, that she did not 
hesitate to consider Honor’s engagement as an act of 
treachery on her part toward one whom she had called 
her friend, and that this fact absolved her from keeping 
terms even with the restraints of humanity. 

It is no exaggeration to say that not any calamity 
which could have befallen the sweet and gracious 
creature to whom she owed so much would have been 
too great or piteous to satisfy her hatred, and that in 
default of any misfortune in the natural order of events, 
she was prepared to tax all the resources of her ingenu- 
ity to provide her punishment herself. 

In every pulse of this girl’s magnificent frame, as she 
sat in her deep lounging-chair, clad in her soft, warm 
gown of flowing white, far into the hours of the morn- 
ing, and with her feet stretched out to meet the hot 
glow of the fire, throbbed precisely the same lawless and 
ruthless temper which sent her countrywomen of the 
Middle Ages to the laboratories of the alchemist and 
physician, to win by force of beauty or of bribe the oc- 
cult poison that was to still for ever the heart which 
had been proved or suspected to be false. 

It was against Honor that her anger raged most vin- 
dictively. She had lured and won him from an alle- 
giance he might otherwise have kept, and though to hurt 
and torture him as he had hurt and tortured her was her 
deliberate purpose, she would not have cut short the 
thread of his life by a single hour. Only so long as he 
breathed with her the vital air would life be worth 
living. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 285 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

“ That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true: 

Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. 

If you loved only what were worth your love, 

Love were clear gain and wholly well for you. 

Make the low nature better by your throes! 

Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!” 

— R. Browning. 

Philip Methuen returned home at such an hour in 
the afternoon of the next day as proved the impossibility 
of his having waited at Trichester for any arrivals by 
the down express. 

In answer to his inquiries, he learnt that Lady Meth- 
uen was indisposed, and had kept her dressing-rooni 
since her return from Earlescourt the day before. 

Other functions besides conscience make cowards of 
us all, and his apprehensions were at once aroused as to 
the cause of any real or fancied interruption to Anna’s 
splendid health. 

Doubtless the young man Oliver had taken his re- 
venge. 

And if he had? Methuen was not of the type of men 
who are taken by events at the surprise : he had fore- 
lived this contingency over and over in his mind, and 
was prepared to meet it. On what precise lines he could 
not say, because he did not precisely know what form 
his wife’s resentment would take; but that only made it 
a question of adaptation. The foundations on which 
were built up his own character and conduct were im- 
pregnable under any assault. 

He sent a message to Anna by her maid, and followed 
it in person after the interval of a few minutes. 

Anna’s dressing-room was one of the few apartments 
which had been modernized and refurnished in Methuen 
Place, Philip having successfully opposed the thorough 
and searching upsetting of all old arrangements which 
his wife had been anxious to effect. 

As some compensation for her general disappoint- 
ment, Anna had done her best to make the fittings and 
accessories of this room and her own especial sitting- 
room as costly and luxurious as possible — so much so 
that, without going into technical detail, enough money 
had been lavished upon them to adequately furnish a 

19 


286 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


moderate mansion, and to excite a pang of conscientious 
compunction in Philip’s mind whenever he entered 
them. On the day in question, Anna was lying full- 
length on a couch, which was drawn across the hearth 
in the full focus of the glowing fire, her narrow high- 
instepped feet, encased in Oriental slippers, negligently 
crossed, and her arms, from which the wide sleeves of 
her gown fell back loosely, clasped above her head. 
Their perfect shape and the exquisite texture of the 
flesh could not have been exhibited to better advantage 
than by such a posture and environment ; and the som- 
bre color of her robe, soft and clinging, and falling in 
straight folds from neck to heel, after her almost inva- 
riable mode, enhanced the beauty of her face, from 
which the hair was rigidly brushed back, as if in dis- 
dain of any added charm that might have been gathered 
from it. 

She was lying in such a position as to face the door, 
and as Methuen opened it and entered, their eyes met 
instantly. She made no movement nor any sign of 
recognition — only a faint wave of color passed over her 
face, and her beautiful wide-opened eyes scintillated 
and narrowed. 

Philip went up to the side of the couch, and put his 
hand kindly upon her arm. 

“ What is wrong, Anna?” he asked. “ They told me 
you were ill ; but you can scarcely be so ill as to be un- 
able to give me a greeting — what has happened?” 

” Nothing has happened,” was her answer, looking at 
him steadily ; ” all things are as they were before, and 
you have never given me reason to suppose that my 
coldness would hurt you. How do you wish me to greet 
you?” 

She rose as she spoke, and, going to the fireplace, 
leaned over the mantel in an attitude at once defiant and 
contemptuous, and with her eyes still fixed on his face ; 
but he observed with how' passionate a grip the fingers 
of her other hand, hanging by her side, closed over the 
folds of her gown, and that she trembled a little in spite 
of her eager efforts at self-command. 

“ How do you wish to be greeted?” And there was 
the provocation of insult in both tone and glance. 

” In perfect candor and good faith,” was his answer. 
“ Something has come between us since we parted : tell 
me what it is, and if it has hurt you, Anna, it may be 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 287 

in my power to take the sting out of the wound. Trust 
me, and tell me the truth.” 

His words, and still more the careful gentleness of his 
look and manner, wrought upon her like oil on flame. It 
had not been her intention to betray herself so openly 
and so soon ; but every phrase he used exasperated her 
frame of mind beyond her poor power of endurance. 

A spasm of mingled rage and pain convulsed for a 
moment the beauty of her face; when she spoke her 
voice was choked and broken from the extremity of her 
passion. 

“ Trust you, and tell you the truth !” she repeated — 
“you! Candor and good faith toward one whose own 
life has been a living lie ! A cheat so consummate^ — so 
cruel — that even now I am loath to believe you are — 
what I have been told — traitor and impostor at all 
points !” 

She stopped breathless, for she had launched every 
word as if it had been a missile ; but he took no advan- 
tage of the pause, his attitude being that of simple 
attention. 

“ Are you treating me,” she cried, “ as you used to do 
when I was a child — letting me spend my rage before 
you tried to pacify me? Answer ! Is it true what Oliver 
Earle has told me? Have you taken from me all I had 
to give — which other men prized — and given me nothing 
in return? When I remember — but, oh, I shall go mad 
if I do ! — the shames and humiliations you have made 
me suffer — how I have schooled my pride, telling myself 
you were too saintly to be fond — and all the while — ” 
She covered her face with her hands. “ I cannot put it 
into words; but I wish that there were indeed a God 
and a judgment to come, that I could curse you and — 
her!” 

“ Her!” 

The sound was scarcely audible; but he spoke as a 
man speaks who obeys an imperious instinct — the in- 
stinct of defending from sacrilege the saint he adores. 
Anna recoiled a little, and her face grew paler than be- 
fore. “ Oh,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “ I 
thought until now it was only her that I hated ! Philip, 
I would lay down my life at this moment to make you 
suffer as I am suffering now. Do not look at me! I 
could kill you with my own hands !” 

“ It will be better that I should go away,” was his 


288 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


answer; and though his voice was stern, there was a 
look of pity in his face which made the proud, desperate 
girl wince under the humiliation. “ As things now stand 
between us, there is a great deal to be said which must 
be spoken, but this is not the time. We do not throw 
words to the whirlwind.” 

He turned slowly and deliberately, as if to leave the 
room ; but with a swift movement Anna sprang forward, 
and threw herself between him and the door. The eyes 
that she lifted to his own blazed with excitement. 

“You shall not go! It is like a man's cowardice to 
escape from the sight of the misery he has made ! but 
you shall stay and answer me. Will you dare to tell me 
with your own lips that what that humpbacked cripple 
has told me is true? — lam your wife, and you have never 
loved me! I thought it was because the priests who 
brought you up had taken the man’s heart out of your 
bosom, and I bore it — ordered my pain to be dumb — 
though there have been moments when I have hated you 
almost as fiercely as I hate you now. Ah, God!” she 
broke off suddenly, striking her hands together, “ what 
a little line it is that divides love from hate !” 

Then the limitless compassion of a great nature broke 
down the barriers of pride, and even of a man’s righteous 
wrath. 

He seized both her hands in his, and drew her in spite 
of her resistance within his arms, closing her eyes with 
his kisses, and pressing his lips to hers with a fervor 
which she had never tasted before. 

“ Forgive me what I have made you suffer,” he said; 
“ I have been more cruel than I knew — the future shall 
wipe out the past — trust me, Anna.” 

At first she had struggled fiercely to be free ; but as 
soon might bird or fish repel their native element as this 
passionate soul reject the demonstrations of the love for 
which her whole being yearned. 

A few moments later and she was lying on his breast, 
with her arm about his neck, and tears of exquisite 
satisfaction stealing from under her closed eyelids over 
the pallor of her cheek. 

Philip Methuen looked down upon the exhausted pain 
which that face expressed, and renewed the vow the ex- 
tremity of her anguish had wrung from his soul. The 
sacrifice he had made to this girl a year ago had stopped 
short of righteous completeness : the letter of the con- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 289 

tract had indeed been rigidly fulfilled, but not the spirit 
of it. This latter he would now exact from his awakened 
conscience. He had married her under coercion, under 
revolt of every instinct of his nature ; but should not his 
will be strong enough to subdue the mutiny of the flesh, 
and to graft an alien but lawful passion upon the nat- 
ural stem? Or if not, it was but a shifting of imper- 
ative duty : what would then behove him would be the 
strenuous counterfeit — the flawless simulacrum of the 
love beyond his power to transfer. 

It is probable that if Philip Methuen had received a 
different training — one in which it had not been the 
rule to probe and dissect impulse and motive to their 
innermost fibre and pore, as with a microscope over the 
seeds of principle and duty, in order to detect their 
germination and growth — he might have accepted and 
met the hardship and difficulties of his position in a 
simpler and more direct fashion. Also, nine men out of 
ten would not have experienced that hyper-refinement 
of sentiment which induced him to conceal so solicitously 
his former relations with Honor Aylmer, in order to 
guard what appeared to him the sanctities of their love, 
and to spare the susceptibilities of Anna Trevelyan. 

If, however, he had hoped that this new departure on 
his side would suffice to silence and satisfy his wife be- 
yond the first excitement of feeling, he was doomed to 
disappointment, and to a very speedy discovery that it 
was not so. 

He had lifted Anna in his strong arms, and put her 
back upon the couch, saying that she was exhausted and 
weary, and had better rest alone till dinner-time, and 
had then turned from her with the view of leaving the 
room, when she caught his hand to detain him. 

“ No: don’t go away,” she said. “ Your kindness just 
now almost took away my senses for the time ; but I am 
quiet now, and able to think. Sit down by my side, 
Philip; you won’t refuse in your turn to tell me the 
truth.” 

“ I think we shall spare each other much unnecessary 
pain,” was his answer, ” if we take this day as a new 
start in life, and forbear to rake up the ashes of the 
past.” 

“ Ah, but I have no past — no ashes to rake up ! I 
mean all my life has been open to you. It is only fair, 
before I trust you for the future, that you should tell 


290 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


me what there is in your life which has been kept back 
from me — otherwise I shall not be able to trust your 
promises. In one word, is what Oliver Earle told me 
about you and Honor Aylmer — the truth?” 

It cost her a struggle to speak the name quietly, but 
she succeeded. She saw that he hesitated a moment 
before he answered, and that, when he did, something 
of the old reserve of his manner toward her was appar- 
ent in tone and expression. 

“ I do not know what Oliver Earle has told you,” he 
said, “ and I ask, as a concession on your part, that you 
will spare me the repetition of it. True or false, it be- 
longs to the irrevocable, and has nothing to do with your 
relations and mine to-day. I think, Anna, I must refuse 
to go over this ground with you. 

“ No, you must not do that,” she exclaimed eagerly, 
and raising herself on her arm, so as to be able to look 
more directly into the face he had averted. “ Remem- 
ber you have just pledged yourself not to be cruel — not 
to make me suffer as I have done — and there is no peace 
of mind possible for me until it is set at rest on this 
point. I will not vex you more than I can help” — but 
there was a spark of sombre fire kindling in her eyes — 
‘‘ but it is within my rights to be told whether Oliver 
Earle has dared to malign you and insult me.” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ I cannot deny that this is within 
your rights, and therefore I will not refuse any longer to 
answer. If Oliver Earle told you that Miss Aylmer and 
I were engaged before — before your marriage and mine 
took place — he told you the truth.” 

Anna had never felt a momentary doubt of the truth 
from the first moment that Oliver had asserted it ; but 
involuntarily, as Philip’s words reached her ears, she 
put her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out a fact 
too hard for her to face. 

But she had spent her violence, and had already de- 
cided that a quieter course would not be less effectual. 
No one but her husband could be credulous enough to 
believe that a few passionate kisses, yielded by his 
generosity to her extremity, were to wash out the record 
of her wrongs. 

“ And yet,” she answered, speaking under her breath, 
and with her hand still shading her eyes, “ you had 
pledged yourself to me from the time we were boy and 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 291 

girl together ; and she knew that I had no other love in 
my heart than love for you.” 

“I think,” he said firmly, “as this subject has been 
forced upon us, that it will be better to speak plainly 
on all points. You have just now repeated a statement, 
Anna, which you have often made before, and I have not 
thought it worth while to dispute ; but it is necessary to 
do so now. I was never pledged to you by any ties be- 
yond affectionate good will and friendship for your 
father. Also, Miss Aylmer had no such knowledge as 
you speak of, until your own action forced the convic- 
tion upon her, and then — she consented to forego her 
own rights to secure your happiness.” His face flushed 
and darkened. “ You force me to say what it is hateful 
both to speak and to hear,” he added, in a lower tone. 

Anna deliberately let her hands fall from her face 
and looked at him with passionate, reproachful eyes. He 
had got up from the seat he had taken by her side, and 
was standing on the hearth opposite her. 

“ Is this,” she said, “ so far as your compunctions go — 
an instalment of the loving-kindness you promised? ’ 

“ The retort,” he answered, “ is one quite natural for 
you to make ; but all the same I do not deserve it. It 
is you who have forced this subject upon me, and refused 
to forbear even when I stooped to solicit your forbear- 
ance, and it is now become necessary to set it in its true 
light. This once — but, understand, never but this once — 
Miss Aylmer’s name shall be mentioned between us, 
and mentioned in order that you may do justice to the 
goodness which has never warmed your heart, although 
you owe to it almost every good thing in life you have 
enjoyed.” 

Anna trembled with indignation. All the old rage 
and passion swelled again. “ You mean — I owe to her — 
the blessing of being your wife !” 

“No,” he said, “I did not mean that;” and the com- 
plete absence of heat and excitement in his manner only 
served to fan her own. “ It would be both useless and 
unmanly in me to remind you to what circumstances our 
connection is owing, and I can well believe that you 
have long ceased to regard it in the light of a blessing. 
I simply mean that Miss Aylmer was the friend of your 
girlhood ; sweet and kind and generous to you, in spite 
of your frequent perverseness, and providing you with 


292 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

pleasures and outlets such as could never have reached 
you otherwise as Mrs. Sylvestre’s niece. The ties which 
bind you to her are so strong that it is hard to under- 
stand how the sudden knowledge that you have injured 
her — even though at unawares — can excite any feeling 
but sorrow in your mind ; and I should think exactly 
the same, Anna, if Miss Aylmer and I were strangers. 
As for myself — I have already owned my behavior has 
not been blameless; but even in my case extenuating 
circumstances might be found.” 

“No doubt!” was the girl’s answer. “Because I took 
your love out of your arms and forced you to stifle the 
heat and ecstasy of your passion, or to transmute them 
into the ice and iron of our relations ! Oliver has told 
me how saint and celibate can love.” 

“Do not quote Oliver!” he said sternly. “I am pre- 
pared to tell you myself that I loved her dearly, but the 
fire was fire of heaven ! There is only one more word 
to say: we were within three weeks of our marriage 
when you followed me to Bruton Street.” 

“ You do well to be explicit — I will never forget it ! Is 
it within my province to ask if that heavenly fire is now 
extinct.^ or is it the burden of your confession to your 
priest and your protracted prayers at the altar?” 

He looked at her with that expression of aloofness 
which had often tormented her with the conviction that 
he stood too far off from her to be hurt by her. 

“We confess our sins,” was his answer, “ and there is 
no sin in my love for Honor Aylmer. All that there 
was of earth or dross has long been consumed.” And 
then he came a little nearer to her, both in act and man- 
ner : “Let us consent that this unhappy page in our life 
shall be closed once and for ever. There is need of for- 
giveness on both sides. I mean to love you in the future, 
Anna, after your own heart’s desire.” 

There was the old light in his eyes and the sweetness 
in his smile that she had sometimes thought was lost to 
her for ever ; but her heart was so sore that it did not 
move her. 

“ You give me alms,” she said, “ as you give alms to 
your papers at Crawford; but I will not take them. 
What do you think I am made of? Your kindness is 
worse than your cruelty. Do not go away deceived — I 
am not pacified. Y our plaster has not healed my wound ; 
that is left for me to manage in my own way.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 293 

“ You mean that there is to strife between us?” 

She gave a little unnatural laugh. ” Do not be afraid ; 
I will not do you any bodily harm, although just now I 
threatened to kill you, and — I am made of the stuff that 
does such things! But that would be a blundering 
revenge.” 

He looked at her with an anxiety he could not wholly 
conceal. He knew from long experience the strength 
of her passions, the ingenuity of her arts, and the absence 
of all the saving restraints of conscience and pity. 

Was Honor Aylmer safe if this girl were bent on her 
injury? And then he mocked his instinctive apprehen- 
sion as absurd and untenable in the thick of the social 
conventions of the nineteenth century, and for one sur- 
rounded by friends and relations, and the natural safe- 
guards of high position. 

“ Revenge is always a blunder,” he said, “ and one that 
seldom fails to recoil. Please God, Anna, I will win 
you to a better mind.” 

She smiled, and got up from her sofa with the air of 
one who wishes to close an interview. ” The promises 
of good behavior are all on your side, you will observe. 
I wish things to go on precisely as they did before. So 
I intend to come down to dinner to-day, being as anxious 
as you always are that the servants should not think we 
have quarrelled. May I trouble you to ring for my 
maid?” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“ The changes wrought 
Type our own change from passion into thought. 

What though our path at every step is strewn 
With leaves that shadow’d in the summer noon; 

Through the clear space more vigorous comes the air, 

And the star pierces where the branch is bare.” 

— Lytton. 

Nearly six years have passed since we first looked 
into the bright interior of the house of Earlescourt, and 
now that Miss Earle and Honor are at home again, it 
bears externally almost the same aspect as it did then. 
Sir Walter Earle’s voice rings just as cheerily through 
hall and chamber. And Honor, now as she was then, 
and has been through all the interval between, is still 
the constant companion of his constitutional morning 


294 the story of PHILIP METHUEN, 

ride, his intelligent referee in all matters, whether of 
political research or on moot points respecting timber, 
tenant, or farm, well as the confidante of his public and 
private dissatisfactions. 

Miss Earle is content to confine her rule within her 
own kingdom, which is the direction of household affairs 
to that point of perfection which makes Earlescourt at 
once the admiration and despair of the neighboring 
county ladies, or perhaps, more strictly speaking, of 
their lords. 

Adrian still lives his aimless life, at once eager and 
indifferent, and into this is now introduced the enervat- 
ing element of love for another man’s wife, which, while 
it holds him in a passionate bondage, sapping the springs 
of health and mental vigor, yet leaves his eyes open to 
perceive the abounding sweetness and patience of the 
woman who is still his daily companion and friend. 

But to that woman life in the old home has changed. 
Her accustomed routine is just the same, as we have said, 
and her personal influence is perhaps more tender and 
penetrating; but the glory and splendor of youth and 
hope are passed away. We do not mean that Honor’s life 
is an empty and blighted one ; but its ardor is tamed, 
and her dreams and ambitions are for others, not her- 
self. 

Her intellectual and artistic interests are still pursued 
as diligently as ever — more so perhaps, as happens when 
it is necessary to pour into these channels the energies 
which have been blocked elsewhere. 

Her trouble was not so much because she had lost the 
lover of her youth — if the resistless hand of Death had 
parted them. Honor could have accepted that stroke — 
but because running through the warp of her own life 
was the woof of his untoward destiny. 

In a sense she identified herself with all his provoca- 
tions and denials : the first thought when she awoke in 
the morning was how he might fare through the weary 
day, and the last at night was the tender hope, which 
became a prayer, that things had not gone too hardly 
with him. 

When she got back to Earlescourt the pressure nat- 
urally became more severe ; they were so near, and yet 
so far. 

Also the reports of his strenuous work among the 
poor, of his zeal in the repair of long-neglected obliga- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 295 

tions, and in the maintenance and exaltation of his 
religion, were all charged with a pathetic meaning to 
her mind. 

Then she had reason to believe, though Adrian never 
told her, that he was constantly at Methuen Place ; and 
this fact, coupled with his increasing gloom and irrita- 
bility, was of sinister omen for Philip’s peace. 

And there was another circumstance which perhaps 
went as far as any other to spoil the comfort of hersiaily 
life. Oliver’s room was no longer a pleasant resort. 
The boy had become (by a sudden bound, as it seemed 
to her) a man, and the man was bitter, ungracious, and 
increasingly mutinous under the hardships of his lot. 

It had now become a thing almost impossible to please 
him: he found fault with her music, calling it mechani- 
cal and prosaic, and criticised her paintings with cynical 
severity ; while again, on occasion, his passion of com- 
punction and gratitude assumed a form that brought the 
color to her cheek, and aroused a vague misgiving. 

It need scarcely be said that Oliver kept the secret of 
his own love, at least as far as open declaration went, 
and also of his breach of faith in regard to Anna. On 
this point he had taken no one, not even Adrian, into 
his confidence, although he had eagerly questioned him 
as to what appeared to be the existing relations between 
her and her husband. 

Here, however, Adrian could not satisfy him ; he now 
carefully timed his visits to avoid Philip Methuen, and 
it suited Anna’s purpose not to betray the knowledge 
she had acquired. 

Shortly after their return home. Miss Earle had pro- 
posed to Honor that they should pay a call of ceremony 
at Methuen Place, and this they had done, the result 
being extremely unsatisfactory. 

They did not see Philip, and Anna’s manner was un- 
certain and depressed. 

When she returned the call she came alone, explaining 
that her husband was gone up for a few days to Lord 
Sainsbury’s place near Guilford. There was an air 
of weariness and repressed excitement in her manner, 
which was not lost on Miss Earle’s keen perceptions. 
She had never liked Anna, and she had thought that no 
circumstances could ever induce her to pity the girl who 
had wronged Honor so grievously ; but we are nobler 
than our resentments, and there was something in the 


2g6 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


look of the young wife’s face which appealed to her 
sympathy. 

“You must be very lonely,” she said kindly. “I 
wonder you don’t have one of your cousins with you.” 

“lam always lonely,” was Anna’s answer; “but my 
aunt Sylvestre would not allow Dolly to stay with me, 
lest she should curtsey to the crucifix in the chapel, and 
Philip should lead her soul astray. She need not be 
afraM; it is necessary to be a pauper, or otherwise 
loathsome, to excite Sir Philip’s sympathies.” 

She looked up and met Adrian’s eyes; he had come 
into the drawing-room, and had stayed when he saw 
who his aunt’s visitor was. It followed, therefore, as a 
matter of course, that he took her down to see her into 
her carriage. 

“ Wait a moment, Anna,” he said, as they reached the 
last stair of the broad staircase; “ your shoe is untied.” 

He knelt before her as he spoke to secure the lace, she 
standing a little above him, and accepting the service 
with her careless, imperial air. As he rose he pressed 
his lips passionately to the thin silk covering of the 
beautiful, dainty foot. A deep crimson blush, such as 
he had never provoked before, rose in Anna’s cheek ; she 
leaned over him and touched his bowed head for a mo- 
ment with her ungloved hand. It was like a caress, and 
wrought upon his facile sensibility almost to madness. 

“ Anna,” he said huskily, almost crushing in his vehe- 
mence the hand he had caught in his owm, “ is the time 
come for your long patience to be wearied out and mine 
to be rewarded?” 

She looked at him with curious attention. His delicate 
face, flushed and inspired by passion, moved her a little. 

“ Come and see me to-morrow,” was her answer, “ and 
I will tell you.” 

He went to her on the morrow, but found her mood 
changed. His passion brought no color to her pale 
cheek, and his prayers were met by a baffling calculation 
of chances. 

She was dressed in the soft, clinging black gown in 
which she had received her husband a few weeks before ; 
but it was now belted round her waist with a crimson 
sash, and she had a handkerchief of the same color 
knotted under the lace about her throat. The costume 
suited her to perfection ; but that was always the im- 
pression produced with whatever Anna put on. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 297 

To Adrian’s eyes she had never looked so beautiful, 
and the languQr of her face and dejection of her manner 
were provocations at once to his pity and his love. 

“ Do not think,” she said, in answer to his pleadings, 
“ that I reject what you beg me to do because it is 
wicked? I have no feeling of that kind. I would go 
away with you to-morrow — to-day — if I thought it would 
make me happy — happier, I mean. We worms of earth 
are never happy. Life is what my father used to sa}^ — 
just one long struggle against misery, with the certainty 
of being beaten in the end. Only some of us are beaten 
in the beginning.” 

She got up as she spoke, and began to walk up and 
down the room, trailing her long skirts along the floor, 
and with her clasped hands falling loosely before her. 
She did not interrupt her lover’s eager assurances of the 
heaven that he would secure for her in the future, biit 
listened as if she wished to be convinced, with her beau- 
tiful head a little raised, and her eyes looking straight 
beyond. 

‘‘ I am quite sure,” she answered, when he paused a 
little, ” that you are in earnest, and I believe what y ou 
say ; but the doubt in my mind is whether I should be 
better off. I don’t deny that I am now a very miserable 
girl — yes, you may curse him if you like ! — but I am not 
a disgraced one. Sin has no terrors for me, but shame 
has.” 

“ Shame should not touch you, Anna, my love ! my 
queen !” 

He would have approached her, to put his arms about 
the beauty that drew him with an irresistible lure ; but 
she mado an impatient movement of restraint. 

“You forget,” she said, “that I do not love you, 
Adrian, though I am willing to wish that I did, and you 
see the case stands thus. Which is- harder — to live with 
a man who does not care for me, but from whom I can- 
not tear away the fondness that was sown in my heart 
as a child ; or with the other, who gives me what I do 
not want and cannot return?” 

“No woman should be able to resist the love which 
should hedge you round.” 

There was the humility of a great passion in his tone 
and glance, and Anna was for the moment moved to 
kindness. 

She paused by his side and put her hand lightly on 


298 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


his arm. “ I am very sorry for you, Adrian ; and I re- 
peat, I would love you if I could. Then I would dare 
the shame.” 

“ What shame could touch my wife? You do not 
doubt my honor, Anna?” 

“If that were possible,” she answered, “you should 
not plead in vain, for where the honor of his name is 
concerned even Philip would feel; and he deserves to 
suffer at my hands. But you forget he is a Catholic — he 
would never go into the divorce court.” 

Adrian’s head drooped foba moment ; he had ventured 
to put his hand upon hers, so as to keep her touch upon 
his arm. When he looked up, his eyes were wet with 
tears. 

“ I had forgotten ; but — it would only mean deeper 
devotion — a more tender respect on my part ” 

She stooped over him and touched his lips with hers ; 
but when he would have seized her in his arms, she 
broke away with a passionate resistance he did not 
choose to overcome. 

“ Why did you send for me?” he asked. “ Is it part 
of a woman’s cruelty to exasperate the love she will not 
share, and amuse her leisure by making sport of the 
pain she inflicts? When you call me again I will not 
come.” 

“ Do not say that, Adrian ; for if ever I send for you 
again it will mean that I have made up my mind to cast 
in my lot with yours — that the chain at which I pull 
galls past bearing. You will not fail me?” 

He renewed his pledges, and went away more hope- 
lessly demoralized than before. The love of this girl, 
stimulated by her mingled frankness and coldness, per- 
meated his whole being with the poison of tantalized 
desire and despair. Out of her presence he seemed to 
have scarcely patience enough to draw the breath of life, 
and the family affection and manly honor which, in 
spite of indolence and self-indulgence, had kept his 
nature sweet and wholesome, sickened and died in the 
malarious atmosphere. 

He shunned Honor’s pure eyes, and avoided as much 
as possible contact with his father, of whose mocking 
penetration he stood in dread. 

A good part of the shortening winter days — shortened 
still more by the morning hours consumed in bed — he 
spent in his brother’s room. Oliver’s bitterness had as- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


299 


sumed of late almost a savage form. And there was 
something congenial to Adrian’s disordered mind in the 
young man’s impious arraignment of Heaven and Fate, 
and in the malignant enmity he professed toward Philip 
Methuen. 

Sometimes Adrian rode, or even, from sheer restless- 
ness of spirit, walked as far as Methuen Place, and 
haunted the park or entered the gardens in the hope of 
encountering Anna ; but he soon learned that neither she 
nor her husband was at home. He, it was said, was 
still at Guilford — the few days having apparently run 
to a fortnight — and she, driven no doubt by the despera- 
tion of her loneliness, was gone to pay an unusual visit 
to Skeffington Vicarage. 

This was in truth the explanation of Anna having 
yielded to her cousin Dorothy’s urgent entreaties: the 
solitude of the Place during the interminable winter 
evenings had become intolerable, and she had a proud 
reluctance to go into society during Philip’s absence. 
It would, she thought, divert her mind and quiet her in- 
creasing restlessness, were she to submit herself once 
more for a few days’ time to her aunt’s rule, and lie 
down at night beside her innocent cousin in the meagre 
white bed of her girlhood. She had dreamed happier 
dreams there than had ever known fulfilment. 

The first few days passed with fair pleasantness. 
Dolly was more than ever her beautiful cousin’s humble 
servant and worshipper, and the younger girls followed 
in the same track. The vicar was kind and genial, full 
of talk about parish matters, concerning which Anna’s 
knowledge and interests had equally fallen into arrears ; 
but she was at the trouble to feign the latter ; and even 
Mrs. Sylvestre was inclined, on the whole, to admit that 
Anna had behaved herself since her marriage rather bet- 
ter than she had expected. 

On the Saturday, however, the fourth day of Anna’s 
visit, a little friction occurred. 

The family were gathered round the breakfast-table 
at what appeared to Lady Methuen the unnatural hour 
of nine o’clock, the room not yet warmed with the re- 
cently kindled fire, and the accessories of the table 
looking meagre and inadequate to her practised eyes. 

Mrs. Sylvestre was dispensing the tea, and kept the 
post-bag at her side till she had leisure to open it — a 
function she strictly monopolized. Anna was secretly 


300 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


eager to get her letters — that is, she was nervously 
afraid lest Adrian Earle should have been ill-advised 
enough to have written to her. It jarred on her irrita- 
bility to watch the precision with which her aunt selected 
the key from the huge bunch she had drawn out of her 
pocket, and then fitted it into the lock. 

The bag did not contain more than half-a-dozen let- 
ters ; four of them were for the vicar, and of the remain- 
ing two one was for Anna and the other for her aunt. 

“ Is it from your husband.^’' asked Mrs. Sylvestre, as 
she handed it to her. 

“ It is an enclosure from my maid,” said Anna; and as 
a matter of precaution, for her aunt’s keen eyes were 
studying her face, she was about to slip it into her 
pocket, when that lady asked again, with a significant 
inflection of tone : 

” Is it not worth while to ascertain if it is from Sir 
Philip? This is the third morning of your stay, Anna, 
and a letter from him is surely due.” 

Thus urged Anna opened the envelope, and ascer- 
tained, before withdrawing the letter it held, that it 
was not the one she had feared. 

All else was plain sailing. She drew out the enclosure 
and examined it openly, knowing that every eye was 
upon her, but now perfectly indifferent to the fact. 

” It is not from Philip, aunt, though you are right in 
thinking it ought to be, for I have not had a letter from 
him for more than a week. But wait a moment : the 
postmark is Guildford, Lord Sainsbury’s town, and 
there is a coronet on the seal — there is something 
wrong.” Anna’s face blanched as she spoke, and a sud- 
den spasm of the throat seemed to choke her. The next 
moment she poured contempt on her weakness. ” And 
if there is,” was the inward whisper, “ what is that now 
to me?” She glanced round at the expectant faces, 
broke the perfect seal, deliberately smoothed the sheet, 
and read as follows : 


” Saxelby, Guildford, 
12 //^ Dec. 1 88 1 . 

“ Dear Lady Methuen : Let me assure you at once, 
on recognizing my handwriting, that you have no cause 
to be alarmed because I have turned amanuensis for your 
husband. He has met with a slight accident, and dis- 
abled his right hand, so as to be forbidden to make use 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 301 

of it for a few days, but there is no cause for anxiety. 
He is very anxious that you should know that this is the 
reason of the break in his correspondence, and his stay- 
ing here beyond leave of absence. He has been daily 
expecting to be able to write or return. As the doctor 
still puts his veto upon his doing either for the next few 
days, I write to explain what we both fear must have cost 
you surprise and uneasiness. 

“ Pray accept the assurances of my friendly regards. 

“ Sainsbury.” 

Anna suffered the letter to drop carelessly from her 
fingers, and an angry glow came into her face. Was 
that all? and her love had been so quick to take fright, 
and she had betrayed her fondness to her aunt and 
cousins ! 

“ Lord Sainsbury might have spared his consideration,” 
she remarked, breaking the little pause that followed 
on her own silence. ” I felt no uneasiness ! I am not 
one of the women who feed on letters : they bore me 
either to write or read, and Philip knows this. It had 
never struck me that he ought to have written.” 

“ But does it not strike you now as a little odd,” asked 
Mrs. Sylvestre dryly, ” that Lord Sainsbury does not say 
what was the cause of the accident? Or is the habit of 
suppression and reserve so ingrained that they cannot 
persuade themselves to be straightforward, even in the 
common affairs of life, and where nothing is to be gained 
by concealment?” 

” repeated Anna irritably. “I don’t under- 

stand.” 

“ I mean your husband and his co-religionists. Do you 
mean to tell me that Sir Philip Methuen is open and 
above-board like English gentlemen — that you know, 
Anna, what he is doing, and thinking, and planning for 
the future, or even what his feelings are in regard to 
the past?” 

An angry light came into Anna’s eyes: there was 
something in the question that chafed her temper. 

‘‘ It would bore me terribly if I did ! I have not a 
spark of interest in the Conservative programme for 
next session, in the defence of Catholic rights in this 
country, or even in the roll of paupers in Crawford 
Union; and these are the points around which Philip’s 
mind mostly revolves.” 




302 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ Talking of Crawford Union,” said the vicar, anxious 
to pour oil on the troubled waters, “ a case came before 
the board yesterday, on which I should have been very 
glad to have had Sir Philip’s help and advice. A woman 
presented herself for admission, who was being passed 
on to her own parish at Trichester. She had a big child 
in her arms, whom she alleged to be too sick for farther 
travel, besides being worn out herself. The medical 
officer saw the child, said it was suffering from small- 
pox, and refused to admit either. She was instructed 
to proceed to Trichester, where the authorities will be 
bound to meet the difficulties of the case. It seemed 
cruel. I can assure you her curses were both loud and 
deep.” 

“ But she will spread the infection wherever she goes,” 
objected Mrs. Sylvestre. 

“ On that point she was duly warned, and it was calcu- 
lated that she would reach her destination before night. 
I doubted it, however.” 

'‘Was it of much consequence?” asked Anna. “A 
wretched pauper, and a child sick of a loathsome disease ! 
It will save and be saved a great deal of misery if it die 
on the road.” 

She rose from the table as she spoke, and summoned 
Dolly by one of her significant gestures to accompany her 
out of the room. “ Come upstairs with me,” she said, 
as they stood together a moment in the lobby, “ and 
help me to put my things together. I mean to go home 
this morning. I have had enough of this !” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.’* 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

When they had reached the bedroom, Anna slipped on 
the superb sealskin coat which was her present out-door 
garb, and sat down in the familiar window-seat, while 
Dolly, who had not ventured to protest against this sud- 
den departure, busied herself in collecting and folding 
her cousin’s things. 

“ It is marvellous to me,” said Anna, as she leaned 
back with her head against the shutter, watching her 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


303 


companion through her long, half-closed eyelids, “ how I 
ever endured this! Midwinter and no fire — no couch 
nor even easy-chair allowed for weary limbs, and the 
necessity of doing everything for one’s self, or else going 
without its being done !” 

“I don’t think,” replied Dolly, with her bright little 
laugh, “ that you were ever reduced quite so low as that. 
In the old days, Anna, you always contrived to make 
me pretty useful.” 

“ In the old days I” repeated Anna, and she closed her 
eyes, lest Dolly should see they were suddenly wet with 
involuntary tears. 

The words have a cruel power over most human hearts, 
being charged with the sense of the dire discrepancy 
between hope and fulfilment; but to this selfish, un- 
happy, passionate girl the old times meant when she had 
believed in Philip Methuen’s love, and been ignorant of 
that great treachery which had changed life and its out- 
look for her. 

Dolly glanced toward her, and then said a little tim- 
idly, as she rolled and smoothed the ribbon in her hands : 

“ I wonder if every one is disappointed with what life 
brings them! I used to think when you married Sir 
Philip Methuen that you would be the happiest girl in 
the world. You know, Anna — you won’t mind my say- 
ing it — you were so very, very fond of him !” 

“ I don’t mind in the least, Dolly” — and Anna’s voice 
sounded to her cousin sweeter and gentler than she ever 
remembered to have heard it before — “ I never did mind 
all the world knowing that it was so. No woman ever 
loved a man better than I did — my husband. But — we 
will not talk of it.” 

“Not talk of it!” repeated Dolly. “Why, it is the 
very time to talk of it, when one has got what one wanted 
and holds it safe and secure for the rest of one’s life! 
And I don’t wonder you care for him so much; for, if I 
only meet him on the road and he calls me by my name 
and asks me how I am, I feel better and happier, and 
worth more than I did before.” 

Anna smiled. “ Thank you, little Dolly ; that is pret- 
tily said, but we will get on with the packing. I am 
out of sorts and restless, and want to get home again, 
although there is nobody there. I shall walk and send 
for my things. Oh, yes, I remember quite well that it 
is the practice in church this morning, and you won’t be 


304 


THE STORY OF PHIL IP METHUEN, 


able to come with me, but I don’t mind that. I am not 
sure that I would not rather walk home alone.” 

She turned her head and looked out of the window, 
where the tower of the old Norman church showed 
clearly above the leafless trees. “ Is the choir improved, 
Dolly, since I last sat in the Vicarage pew?” she con- 
tinued. “ I hear from Mary that you and Godfrey 
Latham are indefatigable, and that the boys can get 
through ‘Hark, the herald-angels sing!’ without a hitch. 
I fancy those angels have had a special message to you 
and him, Dolly !” 

Dolly’s fair cheek was tinted like a sea-shell. “ If you 
only knew, .Anna,” she answered, in a little tender whis- 
per, and with her blue eyes shining with glad tears — “ if 
you only knew how — how nice he is !” 

Anna drew her -breath sharply. “ If I knew !” she re- 
peated ; “ I know all about it, dear, and — and you will 
be twice as happy as Philip and I. That is, I mean, I 
wish you may be so — only, of course, that is hard to 
imagine.” 

She seemed to speak without intention, and there was 
a strange, wild sadness in the expression of her face. 
Dolly drew her soft little hand tenderly over her cheek. 

“ Of course,” she said, ‘‘ I quite understand. You are 
uneasy about this accident, and it was very remiss of 
Lord Sainsbury not to tell you particulars. But a few 
days will soon pass, Anna; he said a few days, didn’t 
he, dear?” 

“ But I do not think a few days will bring Philip. I 
am not like myself to-day, as I told you, Dolly, and I 
have an odd presentiment hanging over me that some- 
thing is going to happen before — before I see him again. 
Do you ever feel like that?” 

It was not Anna’s wont to take the posture of equality, 
and Dolly felt a little vague uneasiness. She answered, 
however, gayly enough : “ Do I ever? Often and often I 
and it is a good omen. I felt precisely like that on the 
day when — when Godfrey Latham met me in Star-Acre 
meadow and told me that — that there was no other girl 
he liked so well as me. Good-by, darling Anna; I hear 
papa calling me. Your maid can finish these things.” 

The girl seized her jacket, hat, and gloves, and slipped 
into them with practised celerity. She looked marvel- 
lously pretty, with the divine love-light in her eyes and 
in the smile on her lips. As she went out softly, closing 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


305 


the door behind her and humming a merry tune as she 
ran downstairs, Anna stepped back to her former posi- 
tion and threw herself down in the window-seat, bending 
forward till her bowed head met her clasped hands. 

“ Mother of God V she cried in the bitterness of her 
heart, “ I cannot bear it — the joy of this girl and her 
lover ! How can I punish the man who has made me 
suffer like this?” 

And then she suddenly raised her head and stood erect 
on her feet. 

“ The man, did I say? Fool that I am, I would not 
hurt him ! but the woman — who took him from me — let 
her pay the penalty for both! I can wait and watch.” 

Lady Methuen’s stubborn and capricious temper was 
so well appreciated by her aunt, that when she announced 
her intention of returning home to luncheon, and walk- 
ing the distance, no objection was raised. Indeed, it 
was always a relief to Mrs. Sylvestre when she and Anna 
parted : the truce between them was always an armed one. 

It was a gray December morning, the third day of a 
hard frost. The earth was like iron beneath the feet, 
and there was not a break or hint of sunshine in the 
gloomy, leaden sky overhead. There was no gleam of 
sea to be distinguished, and the distant hills stood out 
hard and colorless. The dismal bleat of the newly 
dropped lambs was heard in most of the pasture-fields 
skirted by the road along which Anna’s path lay. 

She walked rapidly, and with no sense of physical dis- 
comfort. She was young and in vigorous health, and 
exercise would soon have warmed the blood in her veins 
even if she had not been clothed in furs from head to 
foot. But the motion brought no exhilaration with it, 
nor lightened the weight at her heart, nor relaxed the 
tension of the beautiful brows and set mouth, nor the 
gloom of the eyes looking straight before her. 

It seemed strange, even to herself, the hold which 
her little cousin’s love-story had taken of her mind. 
She followed her in imagination into the chancel of the 
fine old church, and saw the meeting between the two. 
Not many words spoken, but the direct glance of eyes 
which spoke love to eyes, and the instinctive meeting 
and close clasp of the cool young palms. 

Godfrey Latham was a fair, straight-limbed, gentle- 
man-like young fellow, with no special gifts or graces ; 


306 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


but he had an honest faith in the creed to which he was 
professed, and a manly love for his vicar’s sweet daugh- 
ter, and this very singleness and simplicity possessed a 
direct charm for Anna’s brooding mind. 

“Love is enough,” she said to herself, “what have I 
ever wanted but his love?” 

She had accomplished half the distance between the 
Vicarage and Methuen Place, and had hardly met half- 
a-dozen people. It was surprising how lonely the road 
was, though it was between twelve and one o’clock in the 
day ; but these Dorset districts are sparsely peopled, and 
work in field and pasture is at its height at noon. Pres- 
ently, however, she became aware of wheels advancing 
on the road behind her, and looked round sharply. 
Anna was b}^ no means anxious to encounter any friend 
or acquaintance at that moment; her walking alone, 
without even a dog as companion, might look odd, and 
excite remark, and just now she was specially anxious 
to escape stricture or observation. 

The air was so clear and rarefied by the frost, and the 
surrounding quiet so great, that the sound had reached 
her ears before the vehicle came into sight. She walked 
on more swiftly than before, and did not again look back 
till the carriage was close upon her, and the sound of 
Honor Aylmer’s familiar voice in her ears. 

Honor was driving a pair of ponies in an open phae- 
ton; like most country-bred girls, she disliked a close 
carriage, except under stress of weather. She stopped 
the carriage by Anna’s side, and leaned toward her 
with frankly extended hand. 

“ I recognized you half a mile off,” she said, smiling. 
“ There is no mistaking your imperial gait! Will you 
jump in and let me drive you home? We are well met, 
for I am anxious to speak to you.” 

“No, thank you,” returned Anna coldly. “I dislike 
driving in cold weather, and I would rather walk. I 
can wait for what you have to say till another oppor- 
tunity.” 

She had barely glanced toward her, and her manner 
was unfriendly to the point of incivility; but Honor’s 
keen sweetness had detected the unusual melancholy of 
the girl’s expression, and her heart warmed toward 
her, thinking she divined the cause. 

“ Then I will walk with you a little way, and the car- 
riage can go on and return.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


307 


Anna gave no sign of assent, but Honor was not to be 
repulsed. For all that, there was something in her 
companion’s proud reserve which made the task she had 
set herself a difficult one. Perhaps it was this conscious- 
ness which made her rush upon it a little abruptly. 

“ All of us at hpme,” she said, and her color deepened 
a little, “are anxious to hear news of Sir Philip. We 
hope his accident is not of a serious nature. You have 
heard from him, of course?” 

The simple words were like a match to a mine. Anna 
trembled with suppressed passion, and the lines of her 
face hardened. Nothing had ever cost her a greater 
effort than to say, in a tone which, though harsh and 
uncourteous, stopped short of positive offence : 

“ I do not understand — how can you know anything 
about his accident? It is not possible — ” And the flame 
that leaped into her eyes and touched the pale cheeks 
with crimson supplied the words she could not utter. 

“ Oh, no, no !” cried Honor eagerly ; too eagerly, per- 
haps, as the mere fact of her comprehension seemed 
damning evidence of guilt to Anna’s mind. “We read 
the paragraph in the papers, like all the rest of the 
world; but beyond that we naturally know nothing. 
You can scarcely be angry, Anna,” she added, with a 
gentle dignity, “ that such old friends as we are should 
wish to know how he is.” 

Anna stood still in the road, for she was too excited 
to speak as she walked. The trivial circumstance of 
Honor’s knowledge being superior to her own, owing to 
the fact that she herself never read the newspapers, and 
that this ignorance placed her at a certain disadvantage, 
stimulated her jealousy and resentment beyond her con- 
trol. 

But before the words of insult and outrage had left 
her lips, an incident occurred which turned the current 
of her wrath. 

They had reached a turn in the road where a wide 
five-barred gate gave access to a ploughed field of con- 
siderable extent. In one corner of the field, close to 
where the two girls were standing — for Honor had 
naturally stood still when Anna did the same — was a 
shed, newly thatched, which was used as a storehouse 
for mangold roots, and a woman carrying a child in her 
arms had just emerged from this shed, and was making 
her way toward the highroad. She walked like one 


3o8 the story of PHILIP METHUEN. 

overweighted by her burden, and there was an unmis- 
takable air of misery, and revolt against misery, in her 
countenance and gait. The child was a conspicuous 
spot in the landscape, being covered all over with an old 
red shawl. 

As she approached them, Anna recoiled instinctively. 
It would be difficult to say how the impression was borne 
upon her mind — seeing that a female tramp with a child 
in her arms is no uncommon sight on country highroads 
— that the pair now before her eyes was the identical 
woman and child of whom her uncle had spoken that 
morning; but it was so. Her first impulse had been to 
call to the woman to keep her distance, and to warn 
Honor of her danger ; but another thought had flashed 
into her mind and arrested the words. 

The woman, attracted by the sweetness of Honor’s 
face, had begun volubly enough to tell the story of her 
wrongs and beg for charity; and there was a certain 
indignant independence in her manner, which distin- 
guished it from the ordinary whine of the professional 
beggar, and disposed the listener favorably toward her. 

Anna, before whose strained sight the scene seemed 
enacted like the phantasmagoria of a dream, where one 
is helpless to exert the suspended volition, saw that 
Honor, obeying the instinct of compassion, was every 
moment lessening the distance between her and the 
unhappy creature who held that fatal burden in her 
arms. 

She perceived that in another instant she would touch 
it — bend over it — perhaps (for like Philip, Anna said to 
herself, while the breath came in eager pants between 
her parted lips, Honor had no temperance in her human- 
ity), perhaps she would even take it in her arms. 

And if she did, was it fault of hers, or any part of her 
duty to keep Honor Aylmer back from harm? 

Rather, did not fate or chance, or whatever kind force 
governed the world, offer her, scathless, the satisfac- 
tion of her revenge? Here was the poison-cup presented 
to the lips of the woman who had taken from her the 
heart of Philip Methuen ; but her hand had not mixed 
the draught, nor even administered it. Yet what drop 
of concentrated essence from mediaeval crucible had 
more potency than the baleful breath of that infected 
child? 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 309 

It was not death that she thought of or even desired 
for her victim, but the destruction of the loveliness 
which had made her own powerless — the branding and 
biting into the grace of that sweet and alluring face, 
which had never looked more sweet and alluring than 
at that moment. 

It might well be that he had looked his last upon it 
under that aspect ; that the next time he stood face to 
face with Honor Alymer, it would be to receive into his 
soul the loathing, qualified by compassion, with which 
he had trained his fastidiousness to regard human in- 
firmity. 

Lady Methuen paused at her safe distance just long 
enough to see that Honor was in fact, and with a pathetic 
unconsciousness, walking blindfold into the pit set for 
her destruction. The woman had simply stated that 
the child was very ill, giving the impression that it was 
from fatigue and want of food, and the natural instinct 
of pity, on which Anna had calculated, was obeyed. 

Honor with her own hands was helping the mother to 
raise the shawl that covered the groaning child in her 
arms; and the next moment the contact would be so 
close as to make the absorption of the venomous poison 
of all but absolute certainty. 

Her part was played; why should she wait any longer? 
The meeting had been casual, and Honor’s own carriage 
was in waiting for her. 

Anna crossed the road, and walked rapidly on; but 
not without giving, though she instinctively tried to re- 
sist the impulse, a backward glance. 

That showed her that Honor had recoiled with horror 
from the sight which the uplifted shawl revealed, and 
even the sound of her voice in alarmed, indignant pro- 
test came to her ears. 

When Anna reached the carriage, she bade the man 
join his mistress immediately, and then turned aside 
herself into a path across the fields, which led by a short 
cut to Methuen Place. 


310 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


CHAPTER XL. 

“ And what is our failure here but a triumph’s evidence 
For the fulness of the days ? Have we withered or agonized ? 

Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence ? 
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized ?” 

— Abt Vogler. 

Remorse is supposed to be the inseparable adjunct of 
a great crime, but we doubt if this is not one of the 
numerous moral fallacies disproved by facts. P'rustra- 
tion of design, or inadequate results from the act achieved, 
have often assumed this aspect ; but where success has 
crowned the deed — the perpetrator reaping the very har- 
vest he desired to gather — remorse is of slow and uncer- 
tain development. At any rate its voice is never heard 
in the first flush of execution and eager waiting upon 
results, and Anna Methuen’s mind was so constituted as 
to be almost impervious to absolute moral sensibility. 
There was rather the exhilaration of a contingent tri- 
umph in her mood. 

The first thing she set herself to do on her return 
home was to search the file of newspapers since Philip’s 
departure, or rather since the receipt of his last letter. 
Although habitually negligent of all kinds of public 
journals, Anna possessed that keen intuitive sagacity 
which some people exhibit in their rapid investigation 
of the daily broad-sheet, and soon discovered the para- 
graph she wanted in the half-column below the leaders, 
generally devoted to the chronicle of the doings of great 
people. 

It stated that a fire had broken out in the village of 
Saxelby while Lord Sainsbury and a friend, who was 
stopping at the castle, were passing through ; that both 
gentlemen had rendered the most valuable assistance, 
and that the latter had suffered the misfortune of having 
his hand seriously injured by a piece of falling timber, 
while heroically engaged in carrying a paralyzed old 
man out of one of the burning cottages. 

The journalist added that the gentleman v^as supposed 
to be Sir Philip Methuen, “ a name well known in the 
innermost ring of diplomatic and sacerdotal aristocracy . ” 

For more than a week Anna suffered from a sense of 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 31 1 

intolerable loneliness), aggravated by irritation and sus- 
pense. Even the daily absence of her husband had 
never been a matter of indilference to her ; but this was 
the first time since their marriage that they had been 
separated so long, and her discomfort and excitement 
were increased by vague apprehensions concerning the 
extent and consequences of this accident, and by the 
pregnant secret she held in reserve. 

It was on the evening of the tenth day after the receipt 
of Lord Sainsbury’s letter that Philip returned home, 
Anna having received a telegram in advance. As soon 
as he had put off his travelling wraps, he came direct 
into the room where she was sitting to greet her, and 
her first glance showed her how much he was altered, 
considering how short the interval of separation had 
been. Also, it both troubled and annoyed her to observe 
that he carried his hand in a sling, for any sign of phy- 
sical infirmity was obnoxious to her feelings. Still, and 
in spite of her latent resentments, the sight of him under 
any aspect was welcome to her eyes and heart ; she got 
up eagerly from her seat as he entered, and went for- 
ward to meet him, stopping short as her quick glance 
took in these points of difference. 

“ Good heavens, Philip, how ill you look ! I scarcely 
know you with that expression in your face — and — I am 
afraid to touch you! What a stupid thing you have 
done ! As if any paralytic in the world could be worth 
your right hand 1” 

He smiled and kissed her, saying how much he re- 
gretted his long absence, and hoping she had not been 
too dull; and then he went toward the fire with an 
eagerness the intense cold of the weather might well 
justify, but which again struck her as contrary to his 
usual habits. 

“ I am ashamed of myself,” he said, for ” looking and 
feeling as I do, and accept your disgust as my desert. 
I think I was never ill nor hurt in my life before, and I 
had the notion that I was almost invulnerable to pain. 
I have found out my mistake.” 

” It is a very bad hurt, then? Perhaps you will be dis- 
figured — maimed for life?” 

The surgeon assures me to the contrary if I submit 
to the necessary precautions, which of course I shall do, 
as much, Anna, for your sake as my own. My hand is 
now cased in plaster of Paris.” 


312 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Anna recoiled a little; but he was looking intently 
into the fire, and did not observe it. 

“ This is quite a blow to me,” she answered. “ I 
always looked upon you as a sort of god, Philip, and I 
cannot describe how it hurts me to see that line of pain 
on your forehead, and the pallid hue of your skin. Your 
eyes look as if you had not slept for a week ! I always 
knew your philanthrop}^ would end badly. Why could 
you not have let house and pauper bum? My belief is 
you will never recover the perfect use of that hand.” 

“ In which case, Anna, you will hold yourself released 
from your marriage vows?” 

She started and colored a little, and then suffered her 
face to assume an expression of wounded feeling. 

“ I did not mean to vex you,” he said gravely; “ only 
to remind myself and you on what foundations your love 
was built. The blast of disease would shatter them.” 

She looked at him with an intense, indefinable ex- 
pression. 

“ I am not quite sure — with you. Sometimes you do 
me injustice. Do you consider it a crime or a shame 
that I take delight in your strength and your beauty, 
and am deeply grieved that they should have sustained 
injury? — only I refuse to believe that. But come, let us 
be practical! How do you manage to eat under these 
new conditions?” 

vShe drew her seat close to him as she spoke, leaning 
forward with her elbow on her knee, her chin pillowed 
in her rosy palm, and her eyes sparkling with enchanting 
archness. It would have been hard to have resisted the 
passionate fondness of her glance, and he did not at- 
tempt to resist it. He kissed the lovely face as he 
answered, “ I have lived on strong broths hitherto, with 
which I have been able to feed myself ;” but she inter- 
rupted him gayly : 

“ Oh, but I should ask for nothing better than to feed 
you as the mother-bird feeds her fledgling! Do you 
remember at Fiesole how I used to try and persuade you 
to bite by turns at the same fig? But you always pre- 
ferred one to yourself! If you will let me wait upon 
you like that, I will not mind so much.” 

He shook his head. “ I should make a bad patient, 
little Anna. To accept such services becomingly would 
need an experience which I have never had. I would 
rather Duncan cut up my food, and I ate it with my left 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


313 


hand in solitude/’ He stopped, then added seriously: 
“ The last fortnight has taught me that pain and weak- 
ness are as distasteful to my natural temper as to yours ; 
it may be because they bear the marks of their origin, 
and that shame and humiliation show through them. 
At least, few men could have stood more in need of the 
lesson that has been set me to learn.” 

“ To what end?” she asked. “ Could you be kinder to 
sick people, however offensive? or, perhaps, just because 
they are offensive?” 

” Yes,” he answered, “ I could be kinder — as the future 
shall prove. I have often failed grievously, not so much, 
perhaps, in the outward act as in the inward sense of 
fellowship.” 

“ I am very glad that there still remains some room 
for improvement, Philip, and that there is just this little 
touch of sympathy between us. Then, after all, what 
you instinctively love must be lovely?” 

“ It must be that assuredly, only so much more than 
perfect form and color and texture is needed to satisfy 
my meaning of the word.” 

He was silent for a moment, the gravity of his expres- 
sion deepening to sadness. She thought he was think- 
ing of his lost love, but his next words proved her 
mistake. “ I have something to say, Anna, which I did 
not mean to say to-night, but am encouraged to do so 
by the gentleness of your present mood. It must not 
be the cause of any quarrel between us, for, understand 
plainly, I forgive you before I blame you.” 

For a moment Anna felt troubled. “ What have I 
done?” she asked, and she knelt down by his side and 
clasped her hands upon his knees. Then she remem- 
bered that he was scarcely likely to be going to speak 
to her about Adrian; his blindness on that point had 
been absolute up to the time of his going to Saxelby, 
and he could have learned nothing since. Of that other 
deed, no human soul knew aught. She could venture to 
meet his eyes steadily. 

“ What have I done.^” she repeated. 

“ Before this accident occurred. Lord Sainsbury and I 
ran up to town for a couple of days, and I went to South 
Audley Street to see what progress had been made in 
the house. I found the front drawing-room ceiling com- 
pleted, and completed after the designs which I disliked 
in themselves, and had rejected on the ground of their 


314 the story of PHILIP METHUEN. 

costing more than I had any right to pay. I was very 
angry.” 

“ But you are not very angry now?” she whispered, 
and laying her lips on the hand she had taken. 

“ I am not angry now, because, since then, I have had 
time for cool reflection, and recognized the folly — how 
shall I put it, little Anna? — of expecting from you more 
than it is in your power to give. But for the future you 
must clearly understand that I never deny you anything 
without good reason, and that what I have once forbid- 
den or commanded must not be set aside. Have you re- 
ceived the bill from Farini?” 

“ Not yet,” she answered a little faintly; “ and when I 
do, I am prepared to pay for it — out of my own purse.” 

“ Then you must have the purse of Fortunatus, if it is 
equal to such costly expenditure as yours in dress and 
other womanish indulgences, and yet leaves you at 
liberty to give a check for ^500 or £600 \ I believe 
that was what the man had the effrontery to ask?” 

“ And which you are disposed to pay?” 

“ If such was the contract it must be met, and I know 
of no other way of meeting it. Do you?” 

He looked at her with suddenly aroused and stem 
attention. 

There was in Anna a certain defiant recklessness 
which prompted her under the least provocation (and 
she regarded Philip’s altered manner in the light of a 
gratuitous offence) to strain and test the bounds of his 
patience, and even to offend his moral sense by the 
avowed absence of all conscientious scruples of her own. 
Also, in the dim background of her consciousness, there 
lay a latent doubt whether the time might not arrive 
when circumstances would lead her to abandon her pres- 
ent life of restraint and decorum, and accept what her 
lover’s loyalty might offer her. It would not, she 
thought, be altogether undesirable to awaken Methuen 
to the dread of a catastrophe, which would appear to him 
so terrible that there would be few things he would not 
be prepared to do to avert it. Therefore she answered 
with perfect composure, and meeting his eyes with un- 
flinching steadiness : 

“Yes, strange as you may think it, I do know of 
another way. I complained to Adrian Earle that you 
would not let me do as I liked in this trumpery matter. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


315 


and he proposed that Farini should paint the ceiling at 
his expense — as a wedding-gift.” 

Philip changed color: there was something baffling 
in the effrontery of the statement. 

“ And the suggestion has been accepted by you with- 
out an}’- perception of the insult offered or the disgrace 
incurred?” he asked; and to a finer sense there would 
have been an ominous suggestion in the forced quiet of 
his tone. 

Disgrace !” she repeated quickly. “ I object to that 
word, and you must withdraw it, Philip.” 

She got up from her knees as she spoke, and sat down 
in the chair she had quitted, with an air of justly offended 
dignity. 

” No,” he said, “ I shall not withdraw it; but I accept 
my share of the shame. Where is this to end, Anna? 
You are always giving me fresh proofs of your insensi- 
bility to honor and duty, till I dread the discovery which 
may await me to-morrow. Until now I had retained 
the hope that you at least respected your position as my 
wife, and would scarcely have submitted your name and 
mine to so insufferable a humiliation. Have you forgot- 
ten that this man was your lover?” 

A peculiar smile passed over her lips. She would like 
to have answered, “ I am not likely to forget that of 
which he reminds me continually;” but in view of 
Methuen’s deep though carefully controlled anger she 
durst not venture on the outrage. She contented her- 
self with as great but a more guarded provocation. 

“ I think,” she said, “ when you scold me like this there 
are some things you forget to take into account. You 
forget that our standards are so different it is not fair to 
use the same gauge. The supreme duty I recognize is 
not obedience to hard laws of right and wrong, but the 
duty of being as little miserable as your conduct and 
opinions will let me. Adrian Earle thinks, and others 
besides him think, that I am a very unhappy and neglected 
girl, and he comes here very often. There is nothing 
secret in his doing so ; but it happens that you are so 
seldom at home — and when you are, you are never in 
my company — that you do not know what all the rest of 
the world knows quite well. Perhaps if you were just 
a little less taken up with your own affairs — say, with 
helping to make Lord Sainsbury’s reputation, or with 


3 i 6 the story of PHILIP METHUEN, 

religious observances which tell equally on your health 
and your temper, or in brooding over what I took away 
from you — it would be better both for your own future 
and mine. As it is, I don’t think that any one who 
knows what our life together really is, will blame me 
very much if I look elsewhere for what you deny me.” 

She stopped breathless : would he resent her audacity, 
or betray the pain she felt sure she had inflicted? — for 
who knew better than herself how to apply the lash 
where he was most sensitive? 

There was a brief interval before he answered, but 
when he did it was with that complete absence of pas- 
sion which had often stung her to the quick before. 

“In other words,” he said, “you venture to threaten 
that you hold my honor at the caprice of your temper 
or your vengeance? It is of no use to be angry with 
you, Anna, for I know of no instinct or feeling to which 
I can make any effectual appeal — only this last outrage 
must be withstood at any cost.” 

“ But,” she interrupted, stimulated by his self-com- 
mand to further insult, “ you do not consider that, in 
that case, you could perhaps get a dispensation, when, 
you must allow, good would come out of evil.” 

“ Stop there !” he exclaimed sternly. “ That is the line 
I have forbidden you to cross, and am prepared to de- 
fend. Only, Anna, believe this — that no good could 
come to me that was bought by your loss and shame. 
Such as you are, I shall keep you always and protect 
you against yourself.” 

He waited a moment, whether for answer from her 
lips, or to order the words on his own did not appear, but 
presently he added : 

“ I confess now, as I have confessed before, that I have 
been to blame in my behavior toward you, forgetting 
when angry that your conduct cannot cancel your rights 
or free me from a single obligation. But it is my 
solemn purpose to make amends for the past by the 
future. Put my resolutions to the proof, Anna ; and do 
not wantonly speak of wrecking your own life in order 
the more effectually to wreck mine. Even to you re- 
morse and pity would come.” 

He v;ent up to her and put his hand kindly on her 
shining hair. 

“Child,” he said, with a tender earnestness that she 
had hardly ever heard from his lips before, “ you gave 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


317 


yourself to me, body and soul, and, under God, I will 
keep the deposit safe! Comfort me, Anna, with the 
assurance that this devil’s whisper has had no real power 
over your heart.” 

She neither looked up nor moved. On the contrary, 
she shivered a little and drew herself away from his 
touch. She knew her own weakness so well that she 
doubted if she had lifted her eyes to his face whether 
the kindness of it would not have broken down her pride 
and resentment, and forced her to slip from her chair to 
his feet, as she had so often done as a child, and sob out 
her penitence and her love. 

But that could never be again ! She might forget, as 
she had forgotten for a time that night in the joy of his 
return, the unbridged gulf between them ; but there it 
would stand for ever, and no charity or kindness on his 
side, or compunction on hers, could overpass it. 

Of what worth was his goodness to her, or even, if 
that were possible, his love? 

The spontaneous passion of his heart had been given 
elsewhere, and the laborious growth of duty and religion 
had no value in her eyes. Did any woman breathe who 
would have prized his love higher than herself? 

Then another thought struck her brain, and vibrated 
through every answering nerve. Even already it might 
be that she had vindicated her wrongs and that the pun- 
ishment was working in secret which had been so right- 
eously earned. Fool as she was and always had been 
where Philip Methuen was concerned, the limits of her 
endurance had been reached. 

It was Honor Aylmer whom he loved, and it was pre- 
cisely because he loved her that he was able to show 
such tolerance to herself. This was a crime she refused 
to forgive, or to take the insult of his pity as amends. 

“ You are waiting for me to make a proper answer,” she 
said at last, after a long interval, during which he had 
watched the changes of her face with acute solicitude, 
“ and I have none to make. Honor to my mind is only 
binding where mutual love exists, and even you do not 
pretend that this is our case. Do not let us talk about 
it any more.” 

“ Agreed ! It shall be deeds, not words, Anna. I will 
prove to you that I love you.” 

“ I am not easy to deceive,” was her answer, “ although 
I grant you are almost perfect in some forms of deceit. 

21 


3i8 the story of PHILIP METHUEN, 


Any way I hold myself free, and will give you no 
promises for the future.” 

And she rose, looked with mocking assurance into his 
eyes as she passed him, and went slowly out of the 
room. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


“ In brief, acquit thee bravely: play the man. 

Look not on pleasures as they come but go. 

Defer not the least virtue: life’s poore span 

Make not an ell, by trifling in thy woe. 

If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains. 

If well: the pain doth fade, the j‘oy remains.” 

—George Herbert. 

The next day, after a night chiefly spent in painful 
consideration of the situation, Methuen called at Earles- 
court and asked to see Adrian. 

It happened that Adrian was sitting in Oliver’s room 
when the servant brought him this message. As soon 
as the door was closed again, the younger brother said 
eagerly : 

“ Will 3^ou see him? Depend upon it there is trouble 
at home, and, after his mode, he is come to make some 
appeal to your good feeling. You will bear in mind 
that there is not a member of this family whom he has 
not wronged more or less?” 

I will not forget,” was the answer, “that there are 
those outside this family whom he has wronged far 
worse. You need not be afraid.” 

He went at once into the room where Methuen was 
waiting for him. The servant had shown him into the 
great drawing-room, though Philip would have given 
much to escape the cruel recollections which filled it. 

As the door opened to admit Adrian, he turned from 
the deep window in which he had been standing, looking 
out into the frost-bound gardens, and crossed the room 
half-way to meet him. 

“You will see that I cannot shake hands,” he said 
courteously : “ I am still feeling a great deal of pain and 
inconvenience from my accident, but I am very glad you 
have been willing to give me this interview. I may as 
well say at once that I am come on that sort of business 
which, fifty years ago, was decided in another way. I 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


319 


do not send you a challenge, Adrian, but I bring one in 
my own person.” 

“ Ah!” returned Adrian, with an affected exaggeration 
of his usual languor of manner, and sinking slowly into 
the depth of the cushioned chair near him, he plunged his 
.hands into his pockets and extended his legs with an 
air of easy indifference. “ I remember in the old days, 
Methuen, you piqued yourself on your directness of 
speech ; it seems even to have improved with the course 
of time. You look, too, as you are apt to do, desperately 
in earnest ; but I give you fair warning that I am not in 
a mood to be either bullied or cajoled.” 

“You are secure,” returned the other, “against any 
attempt at either. My object is very simple; but it is 
one I preferred to accomplish outside my own house. I 
wish you distinctly to understand that your visits at 
Methuen Place are not acceptable to me, and that they 
must cease. Any further expression of feeling is, I 
think, on all sides superfluous.” 

Adrian smiled in his light sarcastic way. 

“ I congratulate you, Methuen, on the favorable op- 
portunity you have chosen to pass this insult upon me 
and on one whom I will not name, but for whom I resent 
it more strongly than for myself. You have fortified 
yourself not only against the change in public opinion, 
which might have been got over, but by a physical dis- 
qualification which invests you with a very safe immu- 
nity. For the rest, your intimation is not to be 
misunderstood, and it is one that no gentleman ever 
fails to regard. But — the world is wide outside Methuen 
Place.” 

“ Yes,” returned Philip, with the quietness of manner 
which was habitual to him, and which always suggested 
the consciousness of strength, not only in his purpose 
but in his own power of carrying it out. “ I have not 
overlooked the limitations of my authority, neither have 
I yet said all that I came here prepared to say. If I 
bring myself to speak of a contingency which no man 
can contemplate without shame, it is because we have 
both known Anna Trevelyan from a child, and are aware 
how entirely her conduct is at the bidding of her feel- 
ings. There is another consideration, Adrian, which no 
gentleman fails to regard : were you to be so ill-advised 
as to induce my wife to leave her home, it would not be 
in your power to offer her the poor reparation which the 


320 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


world exacts in such cases. Circumstances can scarcely 
have so changed you as to make it possible you should 
try and persuade the woman that you love to a life of 
unredeemed dishonor.” 

“ Not in order to redeem her from a life of intolerable 
misery and neglect?” 

“ Such is not the case. I state this in justice to my- 
self, not with the idea that you will accept it. But even 
supposing that it were true, suffering is more tolerable 
to a woman than shame.” 

Adrian looked up with sudden passion. 

“ The shame, such as it is, would be neither hers nor 
mine, but yours, who first took her from me and then 
rendered her life insufferable by your cruelty. You 
squeeze and fling aside every heart that trusts you, Meth- 
uen; but you shall not do this with Anna Trevelyan’s! 
I give you fair warning: if she continues to stand in 
need of comfort, and it is in my power to comfort her, 
no human endeavor will suffice to keep us apart. You 
are free to defend your own honor in your own way, or 
to do the other thing if you like it better — the latter 
being probably the course you will choose to adopt.” 

“ I think,” said Philip, ” we had better leave these 
alternatives to the determination of events. The mat- 
ter und2r discussion is one of life and death to me, and 
your little gratuitous insults, Adrian, hurt me no more 
than the blows of a wayward child. I do not plead with 
you for myself, but for your own sake and — for hers. 
Have you no sense of what it must cost me to do this?” 

“ So lively a sense that, personally, I would prefer the 
figurative death you speak of to the humiliation !” 

“ But so would not I ! To save Anna from the insuffer- 
able consequences of her own madness, or rather of the 
madness to which you would tempt her, I would submit 
to a much deeper humiliation than to expostulate with 
the friend I have lost. And it is not only the blight that 
will fall upon the life which I am bound to protect from 
evil that I consider, but the equal ruin of your own. 
There is no future possible to the man who is bound by 
such ties as you desire. The poison eats into the soul.” 

“ Have you discharged your conscience?” was Adrian’s 
answer, ‘‘ for we will end this. If the subject is not too 
unpalatable for you to discuss, it is for me ; and moral 
saws and social platitudes never yet served but to clinch 
the resolution to go wrong. From your lips I can’t 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


321 


stand them ! I repeat once more, that whatever sin or 
sorrow or shame befall your wife, and the man who 
loves her better than his own honor and profit, will lie 
at your door. I promise nothing for the future, except 
that I will not cross the threshold of any house where 
you are master.” 

He got up as he spoke, as if to show that he considered 
the matter ended ; but at the same moment, as Philip 
remembered had occurred on a former occasion, the door 
was opened and Miss Earle entered. 

“ Excuse me,” she said with her usual rapid but clear 
articulation, “ if I interrupt some important discussion ; 
but I am very anxious on a certain point, and came in 
to consult Adrian. He is generally able to take things 
coolly. That you are here. Sir Philip, need make no 
difference — your advice may be better worth having 
than his. I am in great trouble about Honor.” 

” Is Miss Aylmer ill?” 

“ I will not allow she is ill ; but she has certainly not 
been well for the last two or three days, and this morn- 
ing there are symptoms of restlessness and excitement 
so unlike herself, as to cause me considerable alarm. 
Yesterday she refused to see Dr. Farquhar; to-day she 
is quite willing to do so ; but that will not satisfy me 
now, and I came in to consult Adrian as to who was the 
best man to summon from town.” 

“ Are there any other marked symptoms you can men- 
tion? Forgive my interference, but some elementary 
knowledge of medicine was part of our curriculum at 
St. Sulpice, and I have myself served in several of the 
hospitals in Paris. Restlessness and excitement point 
at once to fever. In that case, under Adrian’s correc- 
tion” — with a slight smile — “ there is no man whose 
reputation is higher than Sir Wilfred Jenkyns. I have 
immediate business in Trichester, and shall think it a 
favor if you will allow me to despatch your telegram.” 

“ Thank you !” said Miss Earle, with unusual warmth ; 
“ you are the very friend in need we want. But — you 
will pardon my neglect, I know — I have not yet asked 
how you are after your accident, nor expressed my re- 
gret to see you look so ill. You cannot be riding, of 
course?” 

“No; but I have a pair of horses, and they are better 
than in the old times.” 

The careless words suggested to each what to one at 


322 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

least was almost an insufferable recollection. Miss 
Earle’s heart warmed toward Methuen as she detected 
the sudden change of expression, and his almost instant 
mastery of the weakness. 

“I will go at once,” he said. “Is Dr. Farquhar here 
now.^” 

“ I sent for him two hours ago, but he is not arrived ; 
at that time I was not seriously uneasy, but every hour 
since has increased my anxiety. No doubt he is with 
some other patient, who needs him, I devoutly hope, 
more than Honor; but it is hard to wait in these cases.” 

“ I will call upon him again as soon as I get into the 
town. But no doubt he will have been here long before 
that, and have relieved your anxiety.” 

Miss Earle, in the sudden warmth of her gratitude, 
accompanied Methuen herself into the hall. He would 
have gone direct to the carriage without waiting to put 
on his cloak, but she would not allow it. 

“ The cold is intense,” she said, “ and I do not see how 
you are going to get into it without assistance. You 
are one of the men. Sir Philip, who defy fashion, and 
gain by the process. Who but yourself drapes himself 
in a garment of that fashion?” 

“ It is not coxcombry, be quite sure,” he answered, 
touching his arm ; “ but on account of my present in- 
firmity. I will not lose a moment on the road.” He 
stooped toward the delicate little lady and raised her 
hand to his lips. “ Remember,” he added in a low tone, 
“ that my anxiety will be intense.” 

“ I will send you word in the morning.” 

“ That will not satisfy me. If I send to inquire to- 
night, may I rely on the latest information?” 

She nodded and dismissed him, standing a moment to 
watch the carriage out of sight. 

“ I will not tell my poor Honor,” she said to herself, as 
she went back to the girl’s room ; “ but for the first time 
to-day I seem to understand that it is reasonable for 
any woman to be fond of Philip Methuen.” 

, It was eminently characteristic of Philip, that in spite 
of his profound anxiety and the increasing pain in his 
injured hand, he had never succeeded better in conceal- 
ing his personal feelings or in rendering his society ac- 
ceptable to his wife than on the evening of the day after 
his return from Earlescourt and Trichester, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


323 


Mrs. Sylvestre would have found a ready explanation 
of his success in his Jesuitical training, and doubtless 
the severe discipline of his earlier years had something 
to do with it ; but also it is only fair to credit that dis- 
cipline with the growth and development of principles 
which made the welfare of the wayward girl he had 
married a matter of such supreme importance as to keep 
every other sentiment and instinct in check. 

It was equally characteristic of Anna that she yielded 
herself up to his influence as fully as if there had been no 
alleged quarrel and alienation on her part, coolly accept- 
ing the pleasure of the hour, while reserving the right 
of outrage or offence at the next provocation. 

It was beyond her power to be otherwise than soothed 
and flattered by his tender kindness, although precisely 
the same causes of repudiation existed to-day as yester- 
day ; and on the strength of it she had asked him to sing 
to her after dinner, to the charming little piano which 
‘ was part of the new furniture of her morning-room, in 
which she never allowed the fire to go out. She had 
made the same request continually from the time of their 
marriage, and this was the first time he had acceded 
to it. 

She reminded him that such had been the case, as she 
sat down to the piano and opened the score of the “ Hugue- 
nots.” 

“ Ah, well !” he answered, “ we are going to pass a 
sponge over my omissions and transgressions in the 
past. You shall never in the future ask me any more in 
vain.” 

Anna thought she had never heard him sing with such 
exquisite precision and effect. The pleasure it gave her 
was almost too poignant ; and after he had gone through 
the solo parts of Raotdy she leaned back in her chair and 
lifted her beautiful, softened face to his. 

“ Philip, I adore you!” she said. ” Were you as ugly 
as a satyr, you would be able with that voice to lure any 
woman’s heart into your hands, but — as it is! Now, if 
you are not tired, and have a mind to make Christian 
and Catholic of me at once, I will play some of the music 
of Bach’s ‘Passion,’ not as you play it for yourself, but 
to the best of my ability.” 

It was very late before Anna’s enthusiasm was ex- 
hausted ; but at length Methuen found himself alone. 

So great was the latent excitement that he had been 


324 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


holding rigorously in check, that he began to walk up 
and down the room, a habit to which he was by no 
means addicted. With or without reason, he felt that 
heavy weight of foreboding in respect to Honor Ayl- 
mer’s illness, which it is at times equally impossible to 
explain or throw off. He had not mentioned to his wife 
his visit to Earlescourt, nor the intelligence he had re- 
ceived, for obvious reasons, saying to himself that he 
would wait for the night’s report before doing so. He 
had sent his uncle’s old valet, Duncan, who was now 
his own faithfully attached servant, to the house with 
a note addressed to Miss Earle, and had given orders 
that the man, on his return, was to bring the answer to 
him in person. There had been plenty of time for his 
messenger to go and come back, and as one half-hour 
succeeded another and still he did not appear, Methuen 
seemed scarcely able to endure the tension of his 
anxiety. 

And yet no one who had seen him would have thought 
this to be the case. He had soon ceased his impatient 
walking of the room, and was now sitting in a chair — as 
motionless as if power of motion were extinct — with his 
elbow on the arm of it, and his hand shading his eyes. 

He was solemnly planning his future : telling himself 
that so soon as the news reached him of Honor Aylmer’s 
safety, he would close that episode in his life forever, 
as he had always known was the best and only right 
way. He would not even trust himself to see her ; but 
he would write her a few lines of eternal farewell, 
binding on his conscience. Then he would take Anna 
out of England, beyond Adrian’s influence, and devote 
himself to her service in such a fashion that every de- 
sire of her being should be met — all the exigencies of 
her passion in every phase of sensuous and selfish re- 
quirement — so as to make guilt and disloyalty impos- 
sible. 

If, as the slow years passed and the fervid heat of her 
youth declined, it became possible to lift her to higher 
aims and a finer happiness by the force of his affection 
and constancy, he would take such a result as the 
crown of his life, as God’s assurance that his reluctant 
martyrdom had been accepted. 

Spiritual ambition had been his temptation and snare : 
he had hoped, in a far-off alien land, to build up his 
name in the future as one who had dared much, endured 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 325 

much, and achieved much, winning proselytes to the 
Cross through blood and fire. But that door of eternal 
life had been shut in his face; his way hedged up within 
safe narrow limits ; no risk of life or limb — no chance of 
proving his devotion to Christ by his readiness to die for 
Him. 

Only, the cup put into his hand, which looked to 
others as if it held the very wine of life, was known to 
himself as a draught of such unparalleled bitterness, 
that hitherto he had tasted and refused to drink. Such 
revolt was of the past. Henceforward he would take up 
his despised cross and bear it to the end. 

There was a knock at the door. Philip rose and 
opened it, receiving a scrap of paper from Duncan's 
hands. He saw the man waited, as if expecting to be 
questioned. 

“ You have been a long time,” he said; “ I suppose you 
had to wait for this?” 

“ Over an hour and a half. Sir Philip. I never saw a 
house so terribly upset — the poor lady, they say, is very 
bad.” 

The words smote Methuen like a sword; but he 
asked no further questions, nodding dismissal to the 
man, and closing the door again as he retired. Then he 
slowly retraced his steps to the table and held Miss 
Earle’s message, which was written in pencil on the back 
of an envelope, under the lamp. It ran thus : 

” Sir Wilfred Jenkyns has come and gone. Honor is 
sick with small-pox, and I read in his face that the case 
is a bad one. Pity us ! Do not come to the house, for 
Anna’s sake.” 

There are some burdens which the strongest cannot 
bear alone. 

When the gray winter daylight dawned, Philip Meth- 
uen was still on his knees, almost prostrate before the 
altar in the chapel. The hours which had intervened 
had been one stern conflict of strenuous human desire 
against the conceivable, though as yet undeclared, will 
of God. His prayers had only one burden — ” Let this 
cup pass from me ! ” 

Dumb submission to the mysterious decrees of Prov- 
idence — absolute effacement of personal will and choice 
— were the spiritual conditions it had been his life’s 
work to attain ; but all his soul seemed swept backward 
and downward in the blast of this terrible calamity. 


326 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

When he at length, haggard and exhausted, brought his 
vigil to a close, he was conscious that he had scarcely 
gained a single step toward submission. 

“ Not my will but Thine be done !” sounded to him like 
words heard in the clear rarefied air of an immeasurable 
distance — the distance which separates the God from 
the man. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


“ The wind sounds only in opposing straits, 

The sea beside the shore; man’s spirit rends 
Its quiet only up against the ends 
Of want and oppositions, loves and hates— 

Where, worked and worn by passionate debates, 

And losing by the loss it apprehends. 

The flesh rocks round and every breath it sends 
Is ravelled to a sigh.” 

— E. B. Browning. 

Before Philip and Anna met the next morning, the 
latter knew that her vengeance had taken effect, and 
that Honor Aylmer was lying sick with that disorder 
which is the most dreaded, because the most repulsive, 
in the long list of calamities to which flesh is heir. 

Her maid, when she came to dress her, brought the 
intelligence, which Duncan, as a matter of course, had 
spread in the servants’ hall on his return. 

So great was Lady Methuen’s excitement and anxiety, 
that she could not refrain from asking, though her pride 
rebelled at the admission of ignorance, “ And what was 
Duncan’s business at Earlescourt late last night?” 

“ Ah ! that I cannot tell, my lady. It was Sir Philip’s 
business, and Duncan is always very close about the 
master’s affairs.” 

Anna’s cheek burned with anger : it was as much as 
she could do to refrain from boxing the girl’s ears, but 
she succeeded in maintaining an air of haughty indiffer- 
ence, as dignity and prudence demanded. 

To her great disappointment, Philip did not appear at 
breakfast, though this was by no means an uncommon 
occurrence, his hours being so much earlier than hers ; 
but the desire to see what effect was produced upon him 
by the news, which must necessarily be his as well as 
hers by this time, was so imperious, that she ventured 
on an unusual step. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 327 

She sent for Duncan, and inquired how he had become 
informed of Miss Aylmer’s condition. 

There was not one of the old staif of servants who re- 
garded Anna with favor; the affectionate loyalty they 
felt for their master stimulated their feeling against her, 
whom they regarded as having forced herself, to his 
cost, into a position which belonged by right to another ; 
for it is scarcely necessary to say that the circumstances 
which led to her marriage were known (more or less) to 
every member of the household. Also, Duncan had 
been in attendance in Sir Giles’ sick-room when Philip 
had led Honor into it on the day of his uncle’s death, an 
incident which needed no explanation to any onlooker, 
and had been exhaustively discussed in the servants’ 
hall. Added to this, the wanton dismissal of Mrs. Gib- 
son was resented almost as an infamy and a crime. 

It therefore occurred to the man, although he had 
received no hint of secrecy, that it might be as well to 
reserve the truth in respect to his last night’s errand. 

“ He was at Earlescourt,” he answered, “ on business 
of his own — several of the servants there had been his 
friends for years — and Miss Aylmer’s illness was the only 
subject of conversation at the hall table.” 

Anna’s piercing glance fixed itself on his face with 
severe scrutiny ; but it would have been hard if Scotch 
wariness could not have defied her. Duncan encountered 
her gaze with a respectful determination, which in turn 
almost discomfited his mistress. 

“ Was Sir Philip gone out?” was her next inquiry. 

She knew pretty well to the contrary, as it was his cus- 
tom, when he went out early without seeing her, to leave 
some intimation of his movements ; but the point she 
wished to ascertain was, whether he thought of going 
out. 

” Sir Philip was not out : he was lying on the couch in 
his dressing-room,” and then the man added with some 
hesitation : 

“ Did Lady Methuen think it was wise of the master 
to go on with that hand of his, without further medical 
advice? He was suffering terribly.” 

“ It is not a subject I am disposed to discuss with any 
one but Sir Philip himself,” said Anna haughtily; and 
Duncan left her with a deepened sense of dislike and 
distrust. 

“ It is not the pain of his hand from which Philip is 


328 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


suffering,” said the girl to herself, as she slowly paced 
the solitary room, stopping at intervals at the windows 
to look at the scene outside. The snow was falling after 
its silent, stealthy fashion, covering the garden-walks and 
lawns and trees, and the sloping roofs of some distant 
outbuildings which her keen vision could distinguish, 
with the exquisite deposit, and transforming the familiar 
landscape to a new beauty, which, however, chilled and 
repelled her. 

” If he knew !” was the thought that pressed upon her 
mind — “ if he knew !” and involuntarily she put her hand 
to her head as though the idea weighed upon her 
brain. 

” Am I frightened already?” she pursued — ” frightened 
because I have won the stakes for which I played! Not 
I ! I can think of it all — her pain and terror and distress 
— without one touch of pity or relenting, for she has 
hurt me more ! I shall be able to watch what he suffers 
too, and make no sign, because I shall remember what 
he has made me bear. I will forgive her when the 
beauty which tempted him is gone, and him too, the 
first time I see the humiliating pity in his eyes. It is 
easy to forgive what we have revenged.” 

But time, even more than usual, hung heavy on her 
hands. Her anxiety to see her husband was intense, in 
order that she might satisfy her aching curiosity as to 
the way in which he took this unexpected blow; but she 
did not venture to intrude upon his privacy. She did 
go upstairs as a diversion to her weariness, and even 
passed the door of his dressing-room, stopping and 
listening a moment, but she could not detect a single 
sound. Then she took some weary turns through the 
central gallery, examining the faded panels afresh, and 
pausing at each window to mark the new effects pro- 
duced by the snow. 

In this situation she was able to command a view of 
the front entrance to the house, and presently observed, 
to her surprise, that Dr. Farquhar’s neat little brougham 
had just stopped before it, and that he was in the act of 
getting out of his carriage. 

The doctor was a great favorite with Lady Methuen, 
as she was well aware that he had a very strong admira- 
tion for herself, and that he entertained the opinion — 
which, in spite of her manifold claims to distinction, was 
not generally held in their circle — that Sir Philip Meth- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 329 

uen was a very fortunate man to have drawn such a 
prize in the matrimonial lottery. 

There were, however, to-day some circumstances 
which qualified her satisfaction at this unexpected break 
in her morning’s monotony — first, a sudden fear that 
leaped into her heart that Philip might be more ill than 
he acknowledged, and had secretly sent for him; and 
again, that being, as she knew, in attendance on Honor’s 
sick-bed, there might be some danger of infection. 

As she passed Methuen’s door she called to him that 
Dr. F'arquhar was in the house, and then ran half-way 
down the broad, shallow staircase, pausing on one of 
the landing stages, and leaning over the balusters till he 
had entered the hall. Then she flung him a gracious 
greeting from this point of vantage : 

“ Is it safe for me to come down and shake hands with 
you, Dr. Farquhar, and have the delightful gossip that I 
am longing to enjoy? You must know I have a horrible 
dread of infection ! Is the news true about — about the 
trouble at .Earlescourt?” 

“ It is quite true,” he said gravely ; “ but you may vent- 
ure to come down. I do not bring more infection from 
this sick-bed than from others, when Lady Methuen has 
experienced no such anxiety. You may rely upon it, I 
have taken every possible precaution.” 

She heard the door open above her, and the next mo- 
ment Methuen came out; he stopped beside her for a 
moment, and wished her good-morning with so com- 
pletely his usual tone and manner, that she looked up 
at him in surprise, and then he went downstairs to greet 
the doctor, without betraying any symptom of anxiety 
or disturbance. 

“ It is bitterly cold,” he said; “ we must not keep you 
talking in the hall — but Lady Methuen and I are deeply 
grateful for the kindness of this visit.” He turned and 
offered his hand to Anna, who was now close beside him, 
and together they all three entered the morning-room, 
the door of which stood open, and the glare and blaze of 
its great fire seemed to send a welcome in advance. 

“ How is Miss Aylmer this morning?” continued Meth- 
uen ; “ you have just left the house, I conclude. Have 
you better news to give us? — you know how close our 
intimacy with the family has been — we are deeply con- 
cerned.” 

He spoke with perfect quietness, standing by the fire- 


330 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

side, and still retaining Anna’s hand in his, perfectly 
aware that her eyes were searching his face for signs of 
weakness, but also that he was able to bear her scru- 
tiny. 

Dr. Farquhar hesitated a moment before he answered, 
during which he bestowed on Methuen one of his swift 
glances of investigation. The morning bath and careful 
toilet had done much to remove the traces of his night’s 
vigil, and his practised faculty of self-mastery enabled 
him to assume his ordinary manner with scarcely a 
hair’s-breadth of variation ; but for all that there were 
certain physical indications not too subtle to be detected 
by the keen eyes bent upon him. 

“ You are enough of a physician yourself. Sir Philip,” 
he answered, ” to know that no definite opinion can be 
arrived at in the present stage of the disease. To-mor- 
row Jenkyns comes again — for the satisfaction of the 
family as much as the benefit of the patient — by that 
time the eruption will fully have declared itself, and 
we may be able to foresee its probable course. That is, 
according to our lights, which events discredit as often 
as not.” 

‘‘ In Paris,” said Methuen, masks of calamine or gum 
are constantly employed to prevent disfigurement. I 
do not know what is the practice in this country ; but I 
think if the idea were suggested to Miss Earle she would 
be eager to have it adopted. Do you not think it is 
worth trying?” 

Dr. Farquhar shrugged his shoulders. “ Such pallia- 
tives are useful just where they are least wanted — in 
mild cases where the patient has not lost the power of 
self-control. I may as well say at once, in regard to Miss 
Aylmer, that all the indications point to a severe type 
of the malady.” 

Anna had pulled away her hand from Philip’s with an 
angry gesture, regarding his solicitude on Honor’s be- 
half, however openly and temperately expressed, as an 
outrage upon her own feelings. There was a gleam of 
triumph in her eyes as she glanced at him to see the 
effect of the doctor’s last words, but he made no sign. 
As he remained silent, she ventured to ask : 

“ Does any one know how Miss Aylmer caught this 
dreadful disease?” 

“ The young lady is not in a condition to be questioned 
on the subject, though I believe she has made some 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 331 

communication to Miss Earle. Singularly enough, a 
case has just been admitted into the infirmary at Tri- 
chester.” 

He was going on, but at this point an interruption oc- 
curred by a servant introducing Mr. Sylvestre. The 
vicar was well wrapped up in overcoat, muffler, and 
woollen gloves, and held his hat in his hand. 

“ What weather !” he exclaimed, when the first greet- 
ings were over ; “ and we are going to have more of it. 
We shall rejoice in a white Christmas this year. I came 
in. Sir Philip, to know if you would give me a lift to 
Crawford — you have not forgotten, I hope, that to-day’s 
board is a special one. The distress in the borough in- 
creases every day, and the Guardians must be induced 
to extend their system of out-door relief . We shall want 
you. But perhaps you are disabled by your accident?” 
and a look of disappointment clouded his face. 

“ I am very much disabled,” said Philip, smiling; “but 
not quite enough to strike w^ork altogether, only we 
must ask Anna for an early luncheon before we go. 
Perhaps Dr. Farquhar can stay and join us?” 

And then he added in a lower tone, addressing the 
doctor, “ Under these circumstances, I think the examina- 
tion of my hand must stand over until to-morrow.” 

Anna looked up quickly, and an expression of lively 
concern came into the vicar’s face. 

“ That is as you please,” answered the doctor dryly. “ I 
have not yet undertaken the case, and am to succeed a 
great surgeon, the latchet of whose shoes I am unworthy 
to unloose. I conclude, then, you are suffering less 
pain?” 

“Not that; only the matter would take some time, 
and scarcely be a desirable introduction to a board 
meeting at Crawford. Can you make it convenient to 
call here again to-morrow — on your way back from 
Earlescourt?” 

The arrangement was agreed to, and then the vicar 
and doctor, in the interval before luncheon, fell again to 
discussing the circumstances of Honor Aylmer’s illness, 
which was at the moment the point of chief interest in 
the neighborhood. Philip had left the room under some 
excuse of giving orders about the horses, and after a few 
minutes’ hesitation Anna followed him. 

She found him in the dining-room, where the table 
was already laid for luncheon, and he was in the act of 


332 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

drinking a glass of water as she entered. The circum- 
stance, trivial as it was, gave her a pang ; water was 
Methuen’s invariable restorative, and it meant that he 
felt the need of it. She went up close to him and put 
her hand on his arm. 

“I have a little question to ask,” she said, and her 
voice was low and measured, ” and I have the comfort 
of knowing that you always speak the truth — when did 
you first hear of Honor Aylmer’s illness?” 

” From Miss Earle’s own lips yesterday morning. I 
had business at Earlescourt, and chanced to see her. 
Also, I took the telegram to Sir Wilfred Jenkyns to Tri- 
chester and despatched it. Need I say I would have 
done the same for the veriest stranger?” 

“ Ah! I think I understand. You could not of course 
know then that it was anything serious, so that you were 
able to sing and be pleasant to me in the evening — you 
were very pleasant ! — or you might have had some end 
to serve by deceiving me — ” She paused as if consider- 
ing. “ Probably you saw Duncan before you went to 
bed last night, and heard the dreadful news. No news, 
I suppose, Philip, could be more dreadful for you to 
hear?” 

” You are ungenerous,” he said quietly; “but perhaps 
it would be unreasonable to expect otherwise. For the 
rest, you have guessed right. I not only saw Duncan 
last night, but it was I that sent him to Earlescourt. 
You are now in possession of all the facts.” 

“ Not quite all,” she answered, and her glance 
quickened. “ Tell me if you went to bed last night?” 

“ Nay,” he said, with an indefinable smile, “ you exceed 
your rights. It is no part of my duty to give my soul 
into your hands.” 

“I am answered! You have looked ill and altered 
since you came home from Saxelby, but not as you look 
to-day. Shall I wish that woman to live who can bring 
into your face the expression I can read in spite of all 
your disguises? Even now, although you are tormented 
with pain almost greater than you can bear, you are 
willing to bear it for twenty-four hours longer, in order 
to make sure of the latest news from her sick-bed ! I 
will not bear it!” 

“It is not so,” he said coldly. “Under any circum- 
stances we should certainly inform ourselves daily of the 
condition of so near a neighbor and friend. The reason 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


333 


I alleged was the true one — I should be too unfit for 
work, after having submitted to the inevitable pain of 
an examination. But it is time to fetch our friends in to 
luncheon.” 

“ One word before they come. You will return to 
dinner and sit with me to-night? You will remember 
that if I ask you to sing you have promised not to refuse? 
Perhaps I shall ask you.” 

“ And I shall certainly refuse ! All pledges are given 
under unexpressed conditions of possibility and decency. 
I am quite sure, from my present sensations , that by the 
time I return I shall be physically unfit to do what you 
suggest; and were it otherwise, I should refuse, from 
feelings of sympathy and affection with our unhappy 
friends at Earlescourt.” 

At the same moment the gong sounded, and Dr. Far- 
quhar and the Vicar entered the dining-room, the latter 
exclaiming : 

“We must consume our food in ten minutes, Sir Philip, 
if we are to preserve our character at the Board. Anna, 
my dear, I drink to the recovery of your friend !” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


“ Soft sounds, that breathe of Heaven, most mild, most powerful, 
What seek ye here?— Why will ye come to me 
In deepest gloom immersed? Oh! rather speak 
To hearts of soft and penetrable mouldl 
I hear your message, but I have not faith. 

—Faust, 

The next few days were among the most unhappy 
and dreary that Lady Methuen had ever spent. 

Philip dined and passed several hours of the evening 
with her on his return from the board meeting, but he 
did so simply by an act of heroism. And she, seeing 
that he could hardly sustain the pain he was suffering, 
herself suggested, with ill-concealed vexation, that he 
should go early to his own room. 

It was nearly two o’clock of the following day before 
Dr. Farquhar appeared, and Anna, who had been watch- 
ing for his carriage for hours, went out eagerly into the 
hall to receive him. 

“ How cruel you have been !” she exclaimed. “ I 
thought you would never come — I am almost beside my- 
self with anxiety !” 

22 


334 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


I have no good news to give you,** was his grave 
reply. “ Things are going very badly with Miss Aylmer ; 
Jenkyns has consented to stay the night.” 

Anna turned a little pale, and then threw up her head 
with her accustomed gesture of impatience : 

“ Of course that is very sad, only — people who have 
been properly vaccinated do not die of small-pox. I 
was not thinking about the Earlescourt people at all, but 
of Sir Philip, who has not known how to live through the 
last twenty-four hours. I think he will die if 3^011 do not 
manage to relieve him of that pain! He bears it, of 
course, like a martyr at the stake — only the martyrs, you 
will remember, always give in at last.” 

“ Ah ! my dear lady, your affection exaggerates the 
case, but I will do what I can. Please let me have Dun- 
can in attendance — he is invaluable in a sick-room, and 
I may want his help. Send him up at once with the 
little black bag he will find in the carriage.” 

A look of terror came into Anna’s beautiful eyes. 

I shall go out of doors,” she said. “ Yes, in spite of 
the snow” — answering the doctor's wondering look. “ I 
could not stay in the house while — while this is going 
on. I think if I were to hear him shriek or groan — do 
men ever shriek or groan, doctor? — I should die 1 ” 

“ But, my dear Lady Methuen, this is nonsense ! I am 
not going to amputate a limb, but simply, I trust, to re- 
lieve one of pain, by freeing it from the plaster cast in 
which, in my opinion, it was encased far too soon. 
That will give ease at once.” 

He beamed upon her as he spoke, liking her all the 
better for her extravagance, and thinking, as he had 
often thought before, how the man he had come to 
attend seemed to pick up all the good things of life at 
once. 

He went up alone to Philip’s dressing-room, the latter 
rising quickly from his chair to meet him. 

“ At last 1 ” he said. 

Just as the good doctor had misinterpreted Anna’s anxi- 
ety, he now did the same by Methuen’s, supposing he 
referred to the late hour of his visit, and began rapidly 
to excuse himself. 

“ I did not in the least mean that. I am quite sure 
you are come as soon as you could. I mean — what news 
of Miss Aylmer?” 

Whether it was the look of wearied pain or of dumb 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 335 

anguish in the man’s eyes which induced a sudden weak- 
ness in Dr. Farquhar’s stout heart it is hard to say, but 
he was certainly guilty of a very unusual professional 
prevarication. 

“ Really, Sir Philip,” he answered testily, “ it is quite 
impossible to commit one’s self to a definite opinion in 
this way from day to day ! There is so little change that 
Jenkyns stays all night to watch the case. Everything 
under heaven that can be done for her will be done, and 
I still trust our efforts will be crowned with success.” 

“ Still? I understand.” 

He could scarcely have grown paler, nor did a muscle 
of his face move ; but the pupils of the eyes which were 
looking straight into the doctor’s dilated and contracted, 
and he clenched the fingers of his left hand so strongly 
that the nails entered the flesh — but this action did not 
appear. After a pause he said : “ There is one thing, 
Farquhar, I wish you clearly to understand — I must see 
her once again ! How does Miss Earle bear up?” 

” Like the true metal she is ! Commend me to these 
small, delicate women, who look as if a puff of wind 
would blow them away, for pluck and endurance. We 
have two first-rate nurses; but that brave, fond little 
creature is not to be displaced;” 

“ But it must distress Miss Aylmer very much if she 
sees her aunt wearing out her strength in her service?” 

Methuen looked steadily at the doctor as he said these 
words, who changed color a little. 

“ You are setting a trap for the unwary, and may as 
well have the truth now — Miss Aylmer knows nothing 
of what goes on about her. The fever is very high ; un- 
less there is some change within the next three days, it 
would be only a useless giving of pain for any friend to 
see her.” 

“ That is for her friends to decide. I rely upon your 
honor as a man, Farquhar, outside all professional scru- 
ples, that you will give me warning in time.” 

” I pledge my word. Sir Philip Methuen, since you 
exact it,” returned the other coldly. He was thinking 
of the look of terror in Anna’s face and the passionate 
expression of her anxiety. 

“ Shall we now proceed to your own business?” he 
continued dryly. ” Lady Methuen gave me to under- 
stand that you were suffering acute pain; but that is 
evidently the conclusion of her own extreme anxiety.” 


336 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


** I am ashamed to have cost her so much. I have 
never before had much experience of pain ; but I think — 
ignorantly, no doubt — that no suffering can be worse 
than what I have endured the last three days.” 

“ I shall be able to judge better about that presently. 
It is now quite understood that you put yourself entirely 
in my hands?” 

Philip signified assent, and Duncan having now 
brought in what was wanted. Dr. Farquhar began at 
once to break and remove the plaster cast in which the 
hand was embedded. 

The whole hand had been frightfully contused, and 
several of the smaller bones were broken : it had been 
exquisitely set and bandaged, but infiammation and 
even suppuration had supervened, which were danger- 
ously exacerbated by the close pressure of the rigid 
plaster glove. In spite of his long training of profes- 
sional reserve, an exclamation of horror almost escaped 
the doctor’s lips as it was at length fully exposed to 
view. With exquisite dexterity he had unbound and re- 
dressed the hand, calling in the merciful aid of his lancet 
to relieve the tension of pain at certain points, and then 
binding it round with layers of wet linen, and carefully 
instructing Duncan in the application of the same; but 
in spite of his skill it was only by a powerful exercise of 
will that Methuen did not swoon under the extremity of 
the anguish. 

“ I shall have a meaner opinion of Sir Digby WyalFs 
intelligence from this day henceforward,” remarked Dr. 
Farquhar, as, having brought his work to an end, he 
leaned back restfully in his chair and wiped the perspir- 
ation from his brows. ” I should have said that no man 
who knew his business would have built up that hand 
at such a stage of the process.” 

” The fault was entirely mine,” said Philip. ” I was 
so anxious to return home, that I overruled his judg- 
ment.” 

“ But that is a defeat to which no wise man suffers 
himeslf to submit,” returned the other dryly, “ and you 
have taken the consequences. I am now going to order 
you to bed, and to lay my commands upon you that you 
do not leave it till I give you permission. Absolute 
rest is now your only chance. It will be Duncan’s func- 
tion to sit by your bedside, and follow the instructions 
I have given him. The alternative to disobedience on 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


337 


your part will probably be the loss of your hand. I can- 
not answer for it now whether gangrene can be averted. 
Need I say more.^” 

And so it came about that Anna was thrown entirely 
during the next few days upon her own resources ; and 
these, as we know, were soon exhausted. The one 
hour of excitement was Dr. Farquhar’s visit, which was 
the only occasion during the day when she visited her 
husband's room, her motive being quite as much to see 
the way in which he received the news of Honor, as to 
hear the medical opinion concerning himself. Sickness 
and disability were abhorrent to her, and the extreme 
discomfort she had experienced (for it could scarcely be 
called sympathy, from witnessing the pain he had en- 
dured from his accident, had, as it were, worn itself 
out, and had yielded to a suppressed, passionate indigna- 
tion, as the impression grew that it was the anxiety 
which he suffered on Honor’s account which aggravated 
his condition. 

It happened on the fifth day of Methuen’s confinement 
to his room, that Anna, wandering in the park from very 
restlessness of mind, met Adrian Earle. Her first feeling 
was to avoid him, partly from an instinctive feeling of 
guilt, as the cause of the misfortune which had settled 
upon his home, partly from her strong fear of infection ; 
but he besought her so urgently to stand still, even if 
only at a distance, that she yielded to his pra^^er. Also, 
she was eager for news from some other source than the 
doctor’s guarded lips. 

“ You need not be afraid,” he said, understanding her 
reluctance. “ Our poor Honor is quite isolated and 
hedged in with precautions. No member of the house- 
hold has seen her except my aunt, and she is equally cut 
off from all the rest of the family. Anna, if this blow 
fall, it will change life for every one of us.,” 

“Ah! I remember; you also loved Honor in the old 
days.” Anna’s face was white and threatening. 

“ And as I loved her in the old days, I love her still, ’ 
he answered, “ as a brother loves the sister whose equal 
'he has never met. Anna, suffer me to come nearer — 
you cannot be angry because I am sorry for Honor.^” 

“No, no,” she cried eagerly; “keep your distance! I 
should shriek with terror if you touched me. If this 
horrible disease were to seize me, I should die of self- 
loathing alone! But— she will not die?” 


338 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“God forbid!” he said. “I know nothing certainly. 
The doctors keep their own counsel — my aunt and the 
nurses we are not permitted to see. A blight has fallen 
over Earlescourt: my father has never gone off the 
premises since Honor was stricken. He sits nearly all 
day long in the library waiting — waiting for the end. 
Oliver is beside himself: it almost seemed as if we 
should have to use physical force to prevent him from 
attempting to reach her room. I say I know nothing, 
but — we all fear the worst.” 

Anna listened intently, with her hands crushed to- 
gether. 

“ And none of you — no one — ^has any idea how this 
happened?” 

“Yes; she has told Farquhar she touched the child of 
some beggar-woman, with the disease upon it, whom 
she met on the Tri Chester road. What punishment could 
equal the guilt of that woman?” 

“ Yes,” said Anna, in a low tone, “ it was a great crime ! 
Does she suffer much?” 

He shuddered a little. “ Terribly, I believe ; but I 
dare not let my mind dwell upon it. To-morrow or the 
next day, they say, there must be a change for better 
or for worse.” 

Anna turned very pale. “ So soon !” And then she 
added, almost involuntarily — “ I do not think Philip 
knows that.” 

Adrian looked a little surprised. “I hear,” he said 
coldly, “ that he too has been very ill — Farquhar was 
talking to my father about him. He was commending 
him highly, as all the world commends your husband, 
Anna! It seems that he bears pain as no other man 
bears it, and is grateful and patient under confinement. 
Are you his nurse?” 

“Do not talk of him,” she said, “I cannot bear it. 
Tell me — tell me something more about Honor. Does 
she know that — that she is so very ill?” 

“At intervals, I believe,” he said sadly; “but she has 
been for the most part delirious. I do not like to let my 
mind rest on the idea — the gracious, gentle creature ! Let 
me come and bring you my report to-morrow !” 

“You may come,” was the answer, “but I do not 
promise to be here,” and she turned and walked slowly 
away, without vouchsafing another word or backward 
glance. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


339 


It was the morning before Christmas Day ; but there 
was no seasonable brightness of spirit possible, although 
the outside world was in harmony with the time. The 
frozen snow lay in undulating masses as far as the eye 
could reach, the distant hills were tipped with it, and a 
hard gray sky brooded over the earth, almost without 
variation of its leaden line. A path of some extent had 
been swept and cleared from the grounds of Methuen 
Place to Anna’s favorite point in the park, in order that 
she might take the daily constitutional exercise on which 
Dr. Farquhar strictly insisted. 

She had been pacing it up and down when she met 
Adrian Earle, and now that she had dismissed him, and 
perceived that he was out of sight, she did not go back to 
the house as she had intended, but retraced her steps 
once more when she had nearly reached it. 

A profound sentiment of dissatisfaction filled her 
mind. She had not meant to kill Honor. Indeed, her 
revenge would have been more acceptable had it taken 
the form of life, changed and blighted, for its object. 
Death would mean canonization of the victim. As long 
as Philip drew the breath of life he would worship that 
sweet memory, as devotee adores his tutelar saint : the 
dead woman’s shadow would stand between them as her 
living presence had done. 

It was disillusion — not immortal sorrow — with which 
she had laid her account. 

Presently, through the still heavy air, the muffled 
sound of church bells reached her ears ringing a merry 
peal : they were those of Skeffington, and were no doubt 
practising in view of the next day’s high religious festival. 
A smile, that would have been bitter but for its intense 
sadness, touched Anna’s lips. She remembered that her 
cousins and their friends would be busy now, adorning 
the village church with the abundant evergreens and 
choice out-house blossoms placed by the faithful of all 
degrees at their service, and animated by the joy and 
hope which had made life sacred and endurable to so 
many generations long since passed away, but which had 
no message for her. 

There would be a spring of earthly joy, too, welling 
up in Dolly’s pure heart, and shining through her blue 
eyes, scarcely less holy than the spiritual — while she? 

The passion of her sorrow and disappointment was too 
much for her. An instinct scarcely known to her before 


340 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

constrained her. She turned back rapidly toward the 
house, and made her way to the chapel. That, too, was 
in high preparation for the next day’s festival. Anna 
thought the greenhouses must have been emptied to fur- 
nish the wealth of white flowers which she saw. And 
then again a closer glance convinced her that Methuen 
Place could never have provided them. She looked at 
the treasures of art upon and above the altar ; at the 
massive wax-candles which encumbered it ; at one 
special crucifix wrought in ivory, which was so con- 
summate in execution as to chain her eyes for a moment. 
And then the irony of some of her father’s hard speeches, 
as she had stood as a child by his side in the Duomo of 
Florence, passed over the surface of her mind and killed 
her religious aspiration. 

Instead of flinging herself on her knees and pouring 
out her soul to the pitying Mother of God, she shrank 
backward with a sudden recoil, and shook herself as if 
to throw off some unworthy incubus. 

At the same moment . the young priest. Father Cogh- 
lan, entered the chapel, and bowed profoundly on recog- 
nizing the lady of the house. He was greatly surprised 
also, but that sentiment was held in respectful reserve. 

“ Is all this,” asked Anna, making an inclusive move- 
ment toward the altar and church, “ for the benefit of 
the household servants and the few stragglers from out- 
side? Will you hold high mass for them. Father?” 

“ Lady Methuen forgets ! To-morrow is to be a white 
day in our calendar — Father Florentius himself will lead 
the services of the Church, and Sir Philip Methuen pro- 
poses to be present — I have just returned from the honor 
of an interview.” 

True, I had forgotten ; our guest is to arrive to- 
night.” And Anna turned and went away, with a more 
courteous salute than her wont, and without further 
comment. 

As she crossed the stone passage which divided the 
house from the chapel, she heard the luncheon-bell ring. 
What a mockery the routine of a large establishment 
seemed for a solitary girl like herself! She had hoped 
that Dr. Farquhar would have come in before this, and 
been induced, as he sometimes was, to stay to luncheon, 
but he had not arrived. 

As she entered the house she saw that a man on horse- 
back had just ridden off from the side entrance, and her 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


341 


' 


heart beat violently, for she recognized the Earle livery. 
Was it some special notification of Honor’s condition? 
And if it were, to whom was it addressed, and for what 
end? 

She went rapidly upstairs, threw off her things, and 
rang for her maid ; but before her bell was answered she 
heard the door of her husband’s room open and Duncan’s 
step on the passage outside, as though he were in the act 
of leaving it. 

For a few moments she waited breathless, asking her- 
self what step she should take; then went up to the 
glass and looked at her pale face and dilating eyes with 
a sense of self-contempt at her own weakness. The 
next minute she had crossed the passage and tried the 
door of Methuen’s room. It did not yield to her hand — 
it was locked — against her, she said to herself, in her 
growing excitement. 

“Philip, will you open? I must speak to you!” she 
cried, in a voice laden with passionate excitement. And 
then it occurred to her that he was necessarily alone, as 
she had heard Duncan go downstairs, and that in that case 
he must rise and open the door to her, in direct contraven- 
tion of the doctor’s orders. Then again it darted across 
her mind that he must already have defied these injunc- 
tions, in order to lock the door upon himself. Her spec- 
ulations were soon resolved. A step, not to be mistaken, 
crossed the floor of the room within, and the next mo- 
ment the key was turned, and she stood face to face 
with Philip. 

She started back in astonishment — he was fully 
dressed, as if for going out. “ What is the meaning of 
this?” she demanded. “ Are you mad? Where are you 
going?” 

He hesitated a moment, then drew from the breast- 
pocket of his coat a slip of paper, and handed it to her. 

It contained these words, in what she recognized as 
Miss Earle’s handwriting: “Honor has asked for you 
urgently. It is for you to decide whether you will see 
her once more before she dies. They give us no more 
hope.” 

Anna’s face grew almost as pale as the paper she held, 
which shook perceptibly with the violent trembling of 
the hand that grasped it ; the pupils of her eyes darkened 
and dilated, and she looked with a powerful effort toward 
Philip, who was watching her with grave attention. 


342 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


He put out his left hand and touched her shoulder. 

“ I thank God,” he said solemnly, “ that you have the 
grace to be sorry, Anna. Let me pass — there is no time 
to lose.” 

Then, as she had done once before, Anna flew to the 
door and set her back against it. 

“ You shall not go!” she cried, in a voice hoarse with 
conflicting passions ; “ you shall not go and risk your 
life and mine ! Let her die with her last farewells un- 
spoken — before she has poisoned you with her kisses, 
and revenged herself on me by taking from me what I 
refuse to give up ! Philip — I beseech you — I am horribly 
afraid — do not go 1” 

“ Perhaps,” he said, “ your fear and horror are natural; 
but you may be quite sure I will not divide any danger 
with you. There is no possible precaution, Anna, that 
I will not take on my return. But as for rejecting the 
prayer of a dying creature, I would not do that under 
any circumstances — at whatever cost.” 

“ Oh, be reasonable !” she urged, and she clasped her 
hands about his arm and hung upon him to impede his 
movements. “ Think that you yourself have only just 
risen from a sick-bed, and are specially sensitive to 
this kind of danger. I suppose what harm is possible to 
be done to your hand is done already ! — that plea will 
have no power. I tell you, Philip, you will drive me 
wild if you persist in this madness. Is my despair — my 
love — to be nothing, weighed in the balance against her 
loathly embrace !” 

“ I cannot argue with you,” he said, trying to free 
himself, “and I cannot yield. Were Honor Aylmer a 
stranger and an outcast, and sent for me to her death- 
bed, I should obey the summons. Let me go, Anna 1” 

She released her hold of him, and stepped away from 
the door. Her eyes shone in her pale face with an un- 
natural light. 

“Go!” she answered, “but do not go deceived. You 
thought just now that I was sorry for her, but you are 
mistaken. Had I felt sorry, her wickedness in sending 
for you would have killed the feeling. I am glad that 
she will die — I did not mean it, but I am glad that she 
will die !” 

She looked defiantly into his whitening face. He was 
gazing at her with a sort of stupefaction. 

“ You have not courage to ask me what I mean,” she 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


343 


went on. “ I will tell you. I have done nothing — nothing 
to bring this misfortune upon Earlescourt, and to rob 
you of the desire of your eyes ; but I — I might have 
averted it. I was with her when she took the beggar’s 
brat into her arms, and I knew what ailed it. Simply, 
I held my tongue ! I meant to spoil the beauty which 
had blighted my life, and to wean you from your love 
by making her an object of disgust. I see now she will 
never be that to you, therefore — let her die ! Can you 
hate me worse than you did before?” 

And she opened the door, and went out swiftly. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ Oh, I should fade— ’tis willed so! Might I save, 

Gladly I would, whatever beauty ^ave 
Joy to thy sense, for that was precious too. 

It IS not to be granted. But the soul 

Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole; 

Vainly the flesh fades; soul makes all things new. ” 

— R. Browning. 

There was a suite of rooms at Earlescourt which went 
by the name of “ My Lady’s Chambers,” and had always 
been appropriated to her own special service, by the 
ruling mistress of the grand old mansion. They formed 
almost a wing apart, and were shut in from the rest of 
the house by huge folding-doors. 

When Miss Earle came to Earlescourt, she had 
naturally succeeded to this privilege, which she shared 
with her little adopted daughter. Honor Aylmer, from 
that day to the present, when the circumstance of the 
complete isolation of these apartments lent itself so 
favorably to the precautions which had become necessary. 

It was naturally a part of the house with which Philip 
Methuen was least acquainted. The man who admitted 
him led the way as far as the wide corridor on which the 
rooms opened, and then retired, explaining that he was 
forbidden to proceed farther, and if Sir Philip would 
have the goodness to wait where he was for a few 
minutes. Dr. Farquhar would come to him immediately. 

Almost before the servant had disappeared, the heavy 
curtain which hung before the doors on the inner side 
was rung back, one of their leaves was stealthily 
opened, and the doctor appeared in the issue, and 
beckoned to Philip to advance. 


344 the story OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

Outside in the corridor where he had been standing, 
the pale radiance of a wintry sunset, enhanced by the 
dazzling whiteness of the snow-covered earth, had raised 
the daylight to a higher point than it had reached before 
that day ; but as the doors closed and the curtain dropped 
behind him, he seemed to enter on the gloom of night. 
The air also was heavily charged with the penetrating 
odor of modern disinfectants. 

“ Sit down a moment,” said the doctor; “ we are out of 
hearing of the patient and nurses, and I have a word to 
say to you. This step is outside my province, but for 
all that I desire to enter my protest against it. These 
women here are tender fools, but I look upon you as 
almost guilty of a crime in abetting their foll3^ Your 
duty to your wife should have kept you at home. It is 
not yet too late to turn back. I have warned Miss Earle 
that it was my intention to expostulate with you.” 

” You have discharged your conscience,” was Meth- 
uen’s answer, ” and I respect your motives ; but my mind 
is quite made up. Shall we go in?” There was almost 
a mechanical composure about his manner and speech. 
The doctor looked at him with a sour, dissatisfied expres- 
sion, and then raised the single gas-' et which lighted the 
little ante-room a trifle higher. 

“ So be it !” he said. ” I have done my duty, and 
wash my hands of the consequences. You have prob- 
ably come here fasting, to make the danger of infection 
doubly sure?” 

” On the contrary, I ate a fair luncheon an hour or so 
ago, and have fortified myse!f by one or two measures 
in vogue in the hospitals of Paris. I have watched by 
small-pox patients before to-day, and one of them even 
died in my arms. I took no hurt.” 

The doctor uttered a contemptuous snort. 

“ Don’t repeat the experiment. Sir Philip Methuen, 
on the strength of past immunity! You were then in 
the heyday of youth, health, and fanaticism, I conclude, 
and not bound to the poor wretches you succored by the 
most intimate ties of sympathy, as seems to be the case 
with this poor lady. But I repeat, I have done. I am 
on my way home. Jenkyns is here, and spends the 
night again. You will probably find him more civil.” 

He got up brusquely, then stopped a moment. ” I am 
forgetting you are my patient. Allow me to examine 
the position of your hand and to rearrange the sling. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 345 


Is this the best that Duncan can do, after all my instruc- 
tion? But it is a heaven-born gift vouchsafed to few. 
That is better. Good-by. As soon as Miss Earle hears 
I am gone, she will come to you.” 

Almost before Methuen had realized that he was 
alone. Miss Earle entered from the room beyond. She 
was dressed with her usual exquisite precision in soft 
gray woollen garments, and a black lace handkerchief 
was thrown over her still beautiful fair hair, and knotted 
under the delicate chin. She looked pale and worn, 
and her eyes were heavy with sleepless care ; but there 
was the same fine composure in speech and manner, 
which was one of her most delightful characteristics. It 
specially commended itself to Methuen’s approval. He 
advanced to meet her, and raised her hand with tender 
respect to his lips. 

“ Those who love her,” he said, ” can never be grate- 
ful enough for your devotion.” 

She looked at him intently, and her eyes softened 
almost to tears. 

“You must not be too kind,” she said, “for I do not 
wish to break down — yet. I am sorry to see you look so 
very ill. Dr. Farquhar tells me we are doing wrong, 
and he is right ; but I confess I would even do wrong fol 
her dear sake.” 

She paused a moment, then continued : “ Is it neces- 
sary to warn you against — against being shocked? Have 
you ever seen a sick person under this disease before? 
Honor must have great faith in your constancy to sum- 
mon you to her bedside ” 

Her voice shook a little. 

He reassured her on this point, and waited for what 
more she might choose to say, although the tension of 
his anxiety was growing hard to bear. 

“ She has suffered terribly. I shall wonder later how 
I endured to witness it, but to-day she is quieter and 
more herself. She reproaches herself now that she has 
sent for you. Throughout her delirium — when I was 
able to follow it — it was always you and your troubles 
which pressed upon her brain. It revived the bitterness 
of my old feelings for you. She gave you her whole 
heart, and you broke it ” 

He did not answer, and she paused to recover her 
self-command. 

“ Come !” she said, when she spoke again. “ I will 


346 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


take you to her, and leave you alone for a quarter of an 
hour. This way — take care! we keep the rooms very 
dark — do not desire to see her too plainly.” 

She led the way into another apartment, which was 
only lighted by the blaze of the large pine logs on the 
hearth, and the fading light of the short December day. 

On a small, curiously carved antique bed, covered by 
a purple silk coverlet, the sick girl was lying. The room 
otherwise had all the dainty appointments of a lady’s sit- 
ting-room, and beyond the strong medicated odors with 
which it was permeated — scarcely qualified by the huge 
bowls of violets placed here and there on the different 
surfaces — there was nothing to offend the most fastidious 
senses. The position of the bed was such that the 
occupant lay in deep shadow. 

Philip stood motionless by the door, while Miss Earle 
went swiftly up to the couch and bent over Honor, speak- 
ing in a low whisper. He did not catch a sound in 
reply. When she came back to him she said : “ I think 
I can trust your self-control. We are all in attendance 
in the room beyond this, but not within hearing. I trust 
to your honor not to exceed the time named.” And the 
next moment he was alone with his lost and dying love. 

“ My God 1” he said to himself, “ give me the grace of 
self-containment.” And then he went nearer, but not 
close to the bed, standing in the light and heat of the fire. 

“ Honor,” he said gently, “ you have sent for me, and 
I am here ; but I should have come if you had not sent 
for me — to say farewell, as friends must on the eve of a 
long parting. My dear, can I speak one word or do one 
thing that will make that parting easier?” 

His eyes were fixed with strained attention on the bed. 
He saw a slight quiver of her limbs beneath the cover- 
let, and she made a feeble movement of her head, as if 
to raise it from the pillow. And it was not in his power 
to take her in his arms and place her more at ease ! 

“ Come nearer !” she answered, in a voice pitifully 
changed and broken. “ Were you willing to run this risk 
for me? I tried to be content to die without seeing you, 
but — could not ! Are you close to me, Philip? Ah, 
God !” — with a sudden wail as if the words were wrung 
from her lips — “ I cannot see him after all !” 

The he knelt down beside her and gazed for a few 
intense moments into the disfigured face, her own so 
close to his that even her dim and swollen eyes received 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


347 


the full impression of it. For a moment love conquered 
every other , feeling, and she gazed at him till the pure 
passion of her soul almost gave back the old beauty to 
her face. Then a sudden spasm shook her ; he saw the 
tears gather in her eyes, and the quivering of her mouth. 
She put up her hands and covered her face. 

“ I had forgotten ! But of old I know you could look 
at what others loathed and not loath it. Can you bear 
to look upon me, Philip? I have not seen myself — tell 
me the truth ! Am I — am I abhorrent in your sight — ex- 
cept for pity’s sake?” 

” I should like,” he said, in a low whisper, “ to take 
you in my arms and kiss you as I have dared to kiss you 
in the old days, but I will not do that. Not -so much 
that it would be thought by yourself and others a mad 
thing to do, but because I would not insult your good- 
ness by passion which it is sin to indulge. Only be- 
lieve — I never loved you better than to-day !” 

He drew down the sheltering hands gently from her 
face. 

“Just tell me,” he continued quietly, “something 
about what you have suffered — what you have felt, and 
if the thought of separation from all that you love is 
very hard to bear? Or whether, saint as you are, God’s 
will absorbs your own, and you are willing to let go 
this warm, familiar, engrossing life for the strange glory 
of the beatific vision?” 

“ Ah !” she whispered, “ submission is easier when life 
has been spoiled ! I think for myself I am content to 
die ; but for others — Philip, will you always be good to 
Miss Earle for my sake? No child ever owed a mother 
half so much !” 

He signified assent, and she went on, in a weak, dis- 
jointed way: 

“ Be kind to poor Oliver, and forgive him ! I know he 
has been ungrateful ; but it was out of mistaken pity for 
me. Dear Philip, I want you to believe that — that I 
have not been very unhappy ” 

“ I can well believe it,” he said, in a stifled voice ; “ the 
peace of God dwells with the pure in heart. You go to 
receive your reward.” 

“ Not that ! I have never been tried like you. Duty 
has always been made very easy to me. ’ 

Her face grew troubled : the thoughts which pressed 
upon her brain she was too weak and burdened to put 


348 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


into words. She put out her hands toward him with a 
pathetic gesture. 

“ Say — you are happier; that is the comfort I want.** 
My dear, be comforted,” he answered. “ The sort of 
happiness you mean was put out of my reach when I lost 
the woman I adored ; but it would have been a snare had 
it been granted. I am at last content to have foregone it. 
Wish for me now the peace that comes from the sur* 
render of will and desire, so that I may be able to do my 
daily work better in the future than the past, and to con- 
sent to live on and labor to the end, which seems so 
very far off, when — when what I love has been taken 
away.’* 

Ah !** she murmured, I cannot reach so high as that! 
God knows how happy I would have been to have been 
happy, ?nd could have loved and served Him — better, I 
think. But all that is doubly past. Philip,” she went 
on, drawing her breath with difficulty, “ I will own the 
truth to you — I said just now I was content to die ; but 
— I am terribly afraid of dying !** 

‘‘ And if you are,” he answered, in tones touched to the 
finest note of sympathetic comprehension, “ what is that 
but one more sacrifice to the Divine Will? Our weakness 
can never reach the limits of God’s mercy. Does He 
who knows our frames and remembers that we are but 
dust demand from us what is outside or beyond human- 
ity? I believe that there is not a pang that we feel but 
is accepted by God, as on the same lines of sacrifice as 
the supreme atonement of His Son. Did the sword that 
pierced the soul of Mary at the Cross wound less deeply 
than the nails and the spear?” 

She put out her hand with an irresistible impulse and 
touched his. 

He paused a moment, and then took it deliberately 
into his firm, cool grasp. 

Her eyelids were closed, and the tears were slowly 
welling beneath them. 

“ To see you — to hear you— breaks my heart ! I can- 
not bear it even as well as I thought. Philip — tell me — 
that you believe that we shall meet hereafter.^” 

“ I believe it as firmly as that light succeeds darkness 
and life is the outcome of death. My love! my darling! 
there are things I would say but dare not, lest I should 
disturb the peace of your soul. I — I trust you to that 
infinite love we can neither measure nor exhaust Our 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


349 


spirits will meet before the mercy-seat of God, this side 
of my own dismissal.” 

And then, as his inspired face was bowed over her 
own, the strong yearning of her tender woman’s heart 
conquered her. She drew away the hand he still held, 
and put both her arms about his neck. 

“ How shall I consent to let you go.^” she murmured; 
“ I have loved you more than you knew. Kiss me once 
more, Philip!” 

Then she uttered a little cry and released him. 

“ Ah, I forgot! I ask too much.” 

Was anything else possible to him but to put his lips 
to hers with the same ardor as when they were soft and 
fragrant with the dews of health? and to close the eyes 
which sought his so piteously by laying his tender kisses 
upon the burning lids? Even if love had failed, religion 
would have sufficed. 

A pause succeeded, during which she lay back upon 
her pillows spent and speechless, and he, aware that the 
allotted time had expired, rose from his knees, and was 
standing by the bedside in suspense of some word or 
movement on her part, when there was a tap at the door 
and Miss Earle entered. 

She advanced anxiously toward the bed. 

“She is worse?” she asked; “but this was to be ex- 
pected. I must send you away. You have not, I hope, 
left your farewells till the last moment.” 

“No,” he answered, “we are prepared to part now; 
but I do not think she is worse, beyond the pain and 
fatigue of the interview.” 

He bent over her and put the border of the silken cov- 
erlet to his lips. 

“ God give my beloved sleep !” he whispered, and then 
followed Miss Earle out of the room, a sweet-faced nurse 
gliding into it at one door as they left it by the other. 

“I will not keep you long,” she said, when they had 
reached the ante-room, “ for you look as if you ought to 
go home to bed yourself, only — is she — is she so ill as 
you expected to find her?” She looked at him with a 
pathetic wistfulness. 

He hesitated. “ It would be very presumptuous for 
me to offer an opinion in a case like this, and in contra- 
diction to authority we are all bound to respect, and I 
am still more reluctant to raise a gleam of hope when 
you have ordered your soul to submission, but — I do not 
23 


350 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

think your beloved Honor will die. God will give her 
back to the ceaseless prayers which have gone up in her 
behalf.” 

Miss Earle changed color and trembled a little. 

“ Oh,” she said in a stifled voice, “ you try me more 
than I can bear ! and yet you speak like one — like one 
who knows — as if you had received a revelation. But 
no cruelty will equal yours if you are deceived.” 

“ 1 feel that deeply, and yet could not think it right to 
be silent. Encourage her to believe that she will re- 
cover,” he continued; “ bribe her fainting energies with 
your hope and expectation, and she will conquer her 
weakness by the strength of her desire to live — for your 
sake.” 

She looked at him with her flne penetrating smile. 

“ And have you no part or lot in the matter? You 
speak as if you stood outside these hopes.” 

“ Not so,” he answered, almost with solemnity. “ The 
possibility of Miss Aylmer’s recovery has lifted a load 
from my shoulders, that I do not know whether I should 
have been strong enough to bear. But I may as well tell 
you that, under any circumstances, I have seen her for 
the last time. Words are useless: simply, it is better 
that it should be so. As soon as I am fit to travel, 
Methuen Place will be shut up and we shall go abroad. 
The house in South Audley Street will be once more to 
let.” 

“ I am very sorry,” she said, looking at him with a 
kindness which was almost tender ; but he gave her no 
encouragement to further inquiry, and she was too eager 
to return to the sick-room to be anxious to detain him. 

As she re-entered it the nurse came softly toward her 
with her finger on her lips. 

“Is it a miracle?” she said. “Miss Aylmer is in a 
sweet sleep, and every symptom — skin, pulse, tempera- 
ture — is improved 1” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


35X 


CHAPTER XLV. 


** Jesu, Maria— I am near to death, 

And Thou art calling me; I know it now. 

Not by the token of this faltering breath, 

This chill at heart, this dampness on my brow,— 

’Tis this new feeling, never felt before, 

That I am going, that I am no more, ” 

— Dream of Gerontius, 

There was high mass in the Methuen chapel, and a 
crowded audience on Christmas Day. Father P'lorentius 
had arrived at the Place the night before, and, assisted 
by the domestic chaplain and the old Catholic vicar of 
Crawford, took the chief part in the grand ceremonial, 
which was conducted on the highest lines of ritualistic 
observance. The perfection of the choir and organ prac- 
tice was such as to excite the unqualified admiration and 
surprise of the former, and the eulogium that he pro- 
nounced at the close of the service bound boys and choir- 
master to him for life. 

Anna, who had assisted at the service, as an impera- 
tive point of courtesy on the part of the lady of the 
house, stood by his side as he spoke, and smiled with a 
bitterness which could not fail to attract his observation. 

As they returned to the house together, he said, with 
the winning, sympathetic manner which was his distin- 
guishing characteristic : 

“ This is at once a proud and a sad day for you. Lady 
Methuen. The chapel is perfect — a witness to Sir Phil- 
ip’s zeal and devotion; but it is a cruel disappointment 
that he is not able to be present to-day to rejoice in the 
work which he has done.” 

Anna turned her large, luminous, pathetic gaze upon 
him. “ My heart is so sore,” she said, “ that if you would 
consent to receive my confession I am half disposed to 
unburden it, or — I think it will burst !” 

“My daughter,” he answered, “it is my duty as well 
as my pleasure to be at your service, now, or at any 
other time you choose to appoint.” 

“ Then it shall be some other time,” she returned, 
with a dreary smile ; “ and when you have unrobed will 
you come into my room and talk to me a little? — not as 
Father Florentius, but as the man who won my gratitude 
forever, because he was kinder to me than any one else 


S52 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


on the day that I was married and stood in such sore 
need of kindness.” 

A little later Anna received him in her morning-room, 
which was heated to almost a tropical temperature, 
and was like a bower of enchantment, from the pro- 
fusion of exotic ferns and blossoming plants that it con- 
tained. She herself, dressed in a straight gown of ruby 
velvet, and leaning over the mantel from an uncontrol- 
lable feeling of restlessness, appeared to the distinguished 
ecclesiastic, as he entered, to be without controversy one 
of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. 

At her request he took a seat which stood opposite to 
her, and, judging of her mood from her face, waited in 
silence for her to open the conversation. No courteous 
platitudes, however graceful or discreet, would be ac- 
ceptable to one who looked as she looked. 

‘‘ Philip still refuses to see you?” she asked presently. 

“ He refuses ; but before I leave to-night I shall insist 
upon seeing him, not in my character of friend, whose 
safety he is bound to protect, but of priest, whose duty 
it is to put merely personal precautions oh one side.” 

‘‘ In that case, then, I shall be obliged to bid you fare- 
well before you see him, as the quarantine he has estab- 
lished is so strict that he will not let me see or speak to 
any one who has come into contact with himself. I ask 
you, not as priest, but as gentleman, is a man justified 
who exposes himself to a risk so horrible as this, and is 
also well aware that the separation and anxiety will 
drive me mad?” 

Father Florentius made a slight deprecating move- 
ment of head and hand. 

“ Pardon me, dear Lady Methuen, but, although, if you 
sought spiritual guidance and relief, it would be my 
duty to hear whatever you thought proper to reveal, yet 
as a personal friend of your husband, and his guest, I do 
not feel at liberty to receive the honor of your confi- 
dence.” 

” Ah !” she answered, ” it is always the same : I stand 
alone and have no friends. Priests are always cowards !” 

He smiled without the slightest trace of irritation. 

“ I assure you it needed more courage to refuse than 
accept what it was a personal distinction to have offered , 
but the wife of Philip Methuen can never stand in need 
of friends, nor of guidance, nor advice. The resolution 
which keeps you apart is only one more proof of his 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


353 


affectionate solicitude, and the circumstances which have 

rendered it necessary ” He paused a moment, for 

she made a movement of contemptuous impatience. 

“ Ay !’' she broke in, “ how do you propose to defend 
them?” 

“ They do not appear to me to need defence,” he an- 
swered quietly. They were such as no man’s charity 
could have resisted.” 

“ Enough ! it is all a foregone conclusion ! I cannot 
bring myself to the humiliation of the confessional. Ex- 
cuse me a moment. I think I hear Dr. Farquhar’s foot 
on the stairs, and I must speak to him before he leaves 
the house. He has been with Philip for more than an 
hour, and we both want to hear wha. he says.” 

She crossed the room and threw open the door, calling 
to the doctor by name, and asking him to come in and 
speak to her; but he professed to be in a hurry, and 
would have passed on without stopping, if she had not 
stepped forward and intercepted his passage. 

” What is the meaning of your treating me in this 
way?” she demanded. “ Why have you been so long up- 
stairs, and now seek to avoid me.^” 

‘‘ For no other reason in the world. Lady Methuen, 
than that I am anxious to get home to my Christmas 
dinner,” returned Dr. Farquhar good-naturedly. “And 
I have been a longer time than usual with Sir Philip, 
because the dressing of his hand was a troublesome bus- 
iness after — what shall we say? — after the unusual exer- 
tions of yesterday.” 

“ Has he done himself much harm?” 

“ Not so much as he ought; I mean such indiscretions 
deserve punishment. The wounds are now healing 
fairly well, by the second intention. You will be glad 
to know the extreme severity of the pain and all danger 
are over.” 

“ All?” she repeated. 

“ All from this source. Once more, good morning. 
Lady Methuen ; but I am forgetting to give you the good 
news from Earlescourt. Our patient has taken a good 
turn — we are full of hope.” 

Anna turned deadly pale ; was it joy or grief which 
gripped her heart? 

“ I am very glad !” she said mechanically, and allowed 
the doctor to pass on his way. 

Father Florentius left by the evening mail ; but he had 


354 the story OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

a long interview with his host before his departure, con- 
cerning which Anna of course knew nothing, under the 
stringent regulations which Philip had instituted. 

So intolerable were the revolt and restlessness of her 
mind, that, unable either to sit still or to find occupation, 
she left the warm sitting-room and paced up and down 
the long gallery with a fur garment thrown over her 
shoulders. 

The moon was at its full, and flooded the floor with its 
white light, producing weird effects of light and shade, 
as its rays fell on panel and picture. The air was full of 
the sound of church-bells for evening service, and the 
outside world, radiant in its garniture of snow, showed 
with what seemed to her preternatural distinctness. 
She could catch the steely gleam of the sea in the far 
distance, and even thought she could detect the boom of 
the incoming tide. 

It is a commonplace to say on how many guilty and 
sorrowful creatures the cold moonlight shone that Christ- 
mas evening, or even what a succession of aching and 
despairing hearts had throbbed and suffered within the 
walls of the gray old mansion of which this girl was mis- 
tress — only there is an inexhaustible pathos in the 
thought of the measureless extent and perennial flow of 
human frustration and misery. 

“ 1 am so beaten back and baffled,” she said to herself; 
“ the secrets of their meeting yesterday I shall never 
know. Was she loathsome in his sight? — or did he con- 
sent to touch her, and that is why he holds himself in- 
fected? O God!” she cried aloud in involuntary appeal, 
“ I cannot bear what it is given to me to bear ! I seem 
to hear his voice, to see the look with which he would 
greet this woman, plague-stricken as she is. That is not 
enough! now, if never before, I wish that she were 
dead !” 

And then she asked herself what madness tempted her 
to tell him that she was guilty of this crime , which, other- 
wise, could never have been known or suspected, and so 
place a barrier between them that even his greatness of 
mind could never overleap. 

She might have tasted her revenge in silence, drawing 
him to her, as had seemed possible of late, by the resist- 
less force of her own flawless loveliness, as opposed to 
the scathed and marred condition of her victim. 

And then another thought dropped into her mind, 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


355 


but her mind refused to hold it. If the pit she had 
digged for her enemy should be set for her own destruc- 
tion! if this man, the object of her selfish but absorbing 
passion, was to lose — not his life, that was inconceivable 
— but the bloom and glory of his manhood, because he 
had chosen to drink out of the poison-cup she had mixed 
for Honor Aylmer ! 

She put the horrible apprehension from her with some- 
thing of the same sense of physical repulsion with which 
saints of old turned their back upon the Satan who 
tempted them. 

“ Shall I go to him,” she asked herself, stopping before 
his door, ” and drop upon my knees before him, and tell 
him that, cast out of his favor, I cannot live? May not 
the hope of Honor’s recovery have softened his heart.^” 

But this idea was abandoned. She durst not defy his 
authority — planted on such sufficient grounds ; nor could 
she bow her pride so low as to crawl to his feet for par- 
don on the very morrow of her defiance. 

No; what was left to her was to wait and consume 
her heart. 

When Philip Methuen returned from his visit to 
Earlescourt the day before, he had set himself, with the 
mental habit of his character, seriously to consider and 
provide against the consequences of the step he had 
taken. 

While holding himself justified in risking his own 
health and life in the service of his fellow-creatures, he 
was solicitous almost to excess for the safety and welfare 
of others. The danger he had chosen to incur should at 
least not be suffered to extend farther, if rigid precau- 
tion could hinder it. 

No member of the household, except the faithful Dun- 
can, who stoutly refused to be dismissed, should come 
into contact with him until the expiration of the time 
when his technical knowledge taught him that anxiety 
might be dismissed or confirmed. Any sacrifice which 
this resolution entailed was not of much account to a 
man who had made self-abnegation the principle of his 
life ; and the view he had taken of his duty was stoutly 
supported by Dr. Farquhar. 

Methuen had suffered this purpose to be overruled by 
Father Florentius, because he did not consider himself 
at liberty either to resist his authority or to oppose what 
was held by the latter in the light of an act of religion, 


356 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

besides the profound personal satisfaction he derived 
from the exercise of the priestly functions of his friend. 

After this followed a painful interval. 

The solitude to which he had condemned himself left 
him ample time to consider and reconsider the atrocious 
confession which his wife had made to him in their last 
interview. It was of a character to alter all their rela- 
tions, and to render the programme of devotion and self- 
sacrifice which he had marked out for himself impossi- 
ble. But, accepting such as the result, what then was 
the future to be? What attitude was a man to assume 
toward the woman who boldly avowed sentiments of dia- 
bolical malice, and had carried them out to their legit- 
imate issue, and whose dormant conscience seemed 
insusceptible of the saving pangs of remorse and peni- 
tence? Linked in irrefragable bonds with what his soul 
abhorred — so that all former alienation was by contrast 
union — what did religion and duty demand? 

His feelings in respect to Honor herself were those of 
curious disengagement. She would not die but live — of 
that he felt assured — but she was henceforth dead to 
him ; and if happiness in the common meaning of the 
word were out of her reach, the higher grace of blessed- 
ness was hers. Sweet saint! unwedded wife! — from 
whom his allegiance had never swerved — here he set the 
final seal upon their earthly fellowship. 

Another point which occupied Philip’s attention was 
the final distribution of his property. He had long since 
liberally provided for Anna in the way of marriage set- 
tlements, but he had made no will in view of the con- 
tingencies of the future. He now set himself to do this. 
He gave his wife a life-interest in Methuen Place and in 
the town house in South Audley Street, with a suitable 
addition to her income, the administration of her affairs 
being placed in the hands of trustees, and zealously 
guarded against waste or abuse, though she was left un- 
shackled by any personal restriction. There were bene- 
factions of pictures and antique plate, which were 
among the most precious possessions of the Methuen 
family, to the Earl of Sainsbury — “ my beloved friend 
and master,” as also to the seminary of St. Sulpice; and 
legacies to servants and the many poor men whom he 
counted among his friends, all carefully regulated ac- 
cording to their respective claims and wants. The bulk 
of his fortune, both present and prospective, was devised 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


357 


to the Church of his fathers and of his own deliberate 
devotion, for the building and endowment of a Catholic 
church, schools, and hospital, in that quarter of East- 
end London where the spiritual and temporal need was 
greatest ; the decision and regulation of the fund being 
left, under adequate safeguards, to the wisdom and wide 
experience of Father Florentius. 

It was a work of some labor and difficulty to draw up 
the draft of so complex a testament, and when he had 
concluded he sat for some time longer before his writ- 
ing-table, with his elbow resting upon it and his hand 
shading his eyes. 

Duncan, who had been of necessity his amanuensis, 
and who had already received orders to take the papers 
to Methuen’s solicitors early next morning, with injunc- 
tions for immediate despatch, watched him with silent 
anxiety. 

Presently Philip looked up. 

“ My uncle’s room, Duncan — has it been kept in order, 
aired and so forth, since Mrs. Gibson left?” 

“ I believe so. Sir Philip. I know she gave strict 
orders on the point,” and the man’s hard voice took, in 
spite of him, a changed inflection. 

“ I should like to have it prepared for my occupation, 
so that I can sleep in it to-morrow night. In case of 
sickness, it is further removed from the rest of the house- 
hold, and — I prefer the room to any other.” 

” Good God! Sir Philip, you don’t mean ” and the 

strong, gaunt old Scotchman stood up, positively 
blanched and trembling. 

“ I mean nothing but that I want a change of apart- 
ments. This room is too near Lady Methuen’s, and I am 
weary of my confinement in it : it is more than a week 
since I crossed its threshold. You must look upon it, 
Duncan, as the caprice of an invalid.” And then he 
added, My hand is much more painful to-night.” 

Duncan held his tongue, knowing his young master’s 
idiosyncrasies almost as well as he had known those of 
the old baronet before him; but his heart grew cold 
within. 

Philip had risen from his seat and begun to pace the 
room. After a few minutes’ interval, he stopped at the 
unshuttered window, put back the blind, and looked out 
into the night. 

” The moon is rising,” he said, “ and it is not late. Sup- 


358 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 

pose, Duncan, you ride in with the papers to-night? 
The office will be closed, but you can leave them at Mr. 
Chapman’s private house.” 

” You will let me help you to bed first. Sir Philip, and 
bring Dr. Farquhar back with me?” 

“ I am not disposed for bed, and will wait up at least 
until you return. As for Farquhar” — he saw the man’s 
countenance fall, and added kindly — “ yes ; call upon him 
if you like, and ask him to come early in the morning. 
Also, give instructions about the room to-night, but 
quietly — to one maid only.” 

Dr. Farquhar was at Methuen Place by daylight on the 
following morning. He could learn no particulars from 
Duncan, as the man had found his master’s door locked 
on his return from Trichester, and had been told when 
he applied for admission that his services were not re- 
quired. 

When the doctor entered the room, Methuen rose from 
the chair in which he was sitting, to receive him. He 
had evidently not been in bed all night ; both fire and 
lamp were burning brightly. 

Farquhar looked into his face for a moment, held his 
hand a little longer, and shook his head ; going on to 
apply the invariable medical tests with as few words as 
possible. When he had done and Philip had sat down 
again, he said, chafing his hands before the fire and 
looking avray from him as he spoke : 

” I anticipated this when I saw you yesterday morn- 
ing, though I naturally held my tongue. The progress 
of the fever is however, much more rapid than I expected 
— I speak to a man who knows; you will be reasonable?” 

“ I hope so — so long as reason is left.” 

Farquhar glanced toward him sharply. 

“ You are very bad? It will be well to call in Jenkyns 
at once.” 

“ I am very bad,” was the deliberate answer, “ and am 
deeply anxious to make the best of my time. Call in on 
Chapman and Hurst on your way home and urge the 
necessity of despatch with the business they have in 
hand. You can tell them how pressing it is. Perhaps 
one of them, or at least a confidential clerk, could come 
over this afternoon. For the rest, summon the whole 
college of physicians, if it will be any satisfaction to you 
or others ; but personally I desire no other attendance 
than your own.” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


359 


He put his hand to his head. 

“ Can you give me something to keep my brain cool — 
a little longer — and to relieve the faintness which I have 
found it almost impossible to resist through the night?” 

“ I will do my best. You have probably been defying 
Nature, and she takes her revenges.” He glanced toward 
the little oratory which led out from Philip’s dressing- 
room, and the door of which stood open : “ I must order 
you to bed.” 

“ Not till my uncle’s room is prepared for me, when I 
will no longer resist your authority. I will sit up here 
till I have seen my lawyer — the sooner the better.” 

“ Is there anything else I can do? Shall I send Coghlan 
to you?” 

“ On no account. He is young and useful, with all his 
life before him — he shall run no risk. But send, if you 
will, a message to lather Price : I love that old man, 
and he will be willing to come for my uncle’s sake. 
Also — later on if needs be — telegraph to Father Floren- 
tius. I have written as well as I was able to him and 
the Abbe de Saleve last night ; but it is not safe for the 
letters to reach their hands from mine. I thought you 
would be good enough to disinfect and forward then?” 

Farquhar nodded, and picked up the letters from the 
writing-table. 

“ Lord Sainsbury?” he asked. 

I have decided to let that go. Did he know of my 
illness he would come to me, and that must be prevented 
at all costs. You will keep it as close as possible? I 
need not say she must not know it.” He paused, then 
added, “ Wait a moment ! I have something else to say— - 
my wife ” 

Involuntarily the softened look passed out of the doc- 
tor’s face. Was she, the doting, beautiful girl, this 
man’s last consideration? 

“ Yes,” he repeated stiffly — “ your wife. Sir Philip?” 

“ I — I must leave it to your discretion to tell her the 
truth ; only she must not, as a matter of course, be al- 
lowed to see me.” 

“ You mean you have decided to let that go also? 
Perhaps she will defy our precautions?” 

“ That,” said Philip sternly, “ it will be your duty and 
the duty of my nurses to prevent. Her safety must be 
absolutely secured — under any difficulties. It would be 
better if you could persuade her to leave the house, and 


36 o the story of PHILIP METHUEN, 

go to the Vicarage. But, forgive me; I think there will 
be no difficulty.” 

“ And you have no message for her?” 

I have no message for her beyond the earnest en- 
treaty that she will regard my wishes on this point.” 

Dr. Farquhar proved his sympathy for Lady Methuen 
by an act of undeniable cowardice. When he left Phil- 
ip’s room he made his way out of the house down the 
back staircase, and succeeded in reaching his carriage 
without his early visit becoming known to her. He said 
to himself he would see her on the occasion of his next, 
which was timed for a few hours later. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

“Rouse thee, my fainting soul, and play the man; 

And through such waning span 
Of life and thought as still has to be trod, 

Prepare to meet thy God. 

And while the storm of that bewilderment 
Is for a season spent. 

And, ere afresh the ruin on me fall, 

Use well the interval.” 

—Dream of Gerontius. 

The march of events during the next few days was so 
rapid that it seemed to those concerned more like some 
delirious dream than the ordinary sequence of cause and 
effect. 

Methuen preserved his faculties for the transaction of 
affairs until the affairs he was so anxious to conclude 
were accomplished, taking careful precaution, by the 
lucidity and composure of his speech and behavior, to 
remove any possible doubt on the part of the attached 
old lawyer who attended him that he was mentally qual- 
ified for the task he fulfilled. But the reaction after 
such a protracted strain was necessarily severe. In the 
evening of the same day he removed into the room which 
had been occupied by his late uncle, and was familiar- 
ized to him by many a long and affectionate vigil, and 
the look of poignant and tender recollection on entering 
it indicated almost the last conscious exercise of his 
mind. 

Later still, Dr. Farquhar and Sir Wilfred Jenkyns met 
by his bedside. Almost from the first, every symptom 
pointed to a fatal result, although the secret of his ex- 
tremity was sedulously kept. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 361 


The fever assumed the severest form of typhoid, and 
delirium and stupor alternated, the repulsive but salu- 
tary features of the primary disease remaining sup- 
pressed, in spite of all the resources of medical science. 

So rapid was the cruel havoc of the disorder, that, on 
the evening of the fifth day, almost all hope of recovery 
was abandoned by the several physicians who had been 
summoned by Anna’s exigence to wait helpless on his 
death-bed. 

The old Catholic priest, who had loved this young 
man with the fine ardor of spiritual kinship, was kneel- 
ing by his side, as he had knelt not so much more than 
a year ago by the side of Sir Giles Methuen : but the lat- 
ter had been a feeble life which had long fluctuated in 
the socket ; this was the violent rending of the chord of 
a vigorous and beneficent existence. 

An altar, on which the sacred elements were set, had 
been prepared and placed several hours before, in de- 
vout hopes of some change in the condition of the sick 
man that would render the conscious administration of 
the last rites possible. 

There was another man also who kept unsleeping 
watch by Methuen’s pillow — the distinguished ecclesias- 
tic we have known as F ather Pdorentius, who had been 
first introduced to him by Lord Sainsbury two days be- 
fore his marriage, and had been his confessor ever since. 

He had put aside every engagement of work or pleas- 
ure on the receipt of Farquhar’s telegram, and had ar- 
rived at the place with a despatch that astonished the 
latter. He had listened with courteous attention to the 
representations of risk and danger which the doctor 
thought it his duty to make, but had practically put them 
all on one side. 

“ I have passed unscathed so often through plague and 
pestilence,” he said smiling, “that I believe myself in- 
vulnerable; but were it otherwise, to succor this man’s 
last moments I would be willing to go down with him 
into the valley of death.*’ 

“ Ah !” returned the other, “ you probably know him 
better than I. The late baronet, his uncle, doted upon 
him, I remember ; but with me he has always seemed 
on guard — one I never got close to.” 

As soon as Anna had known of the arrival of Floren- 
tius, she had sent him a message beseeching him to see 
her, if only for a few minutes, before he went upstairs 


362 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


to the sick-room — a request which was immediately com- 
plied with. 

He was secretly startled by the change which little 
more than forty-eight hours had made in the beautiful, 
defiant woman who had chilled his sympathies at their 
last interview. This pale, stricken girl, in her clinging 
black garments, and with the look of a wounded animal in 
her wild, dilating eyes, struck at once the chord of rever- 
ent pity which was so finely strung in this man’s nature. 

“Father,” she said, going up to him and taking his 
hand in both hers with a gesture of humble but passion- 
ate appeal, “ they will not let me see him ! Think what 
that means ! I am trying to be quiet and reasonable, 
that you may see that I am to be trusted. I will not 
speak to him — I will promise not even to touch him ; 
but — if you do not let me see him, I shall go mad !” 

“ My child,” he said, “ if words of mine can avail, you 
shall see your husband.” 

Then she sank upon her knees and covered his hands 
with her kisses, refusing to suffer him to raise her from 
her posture of humiliation. 

“ Hear me,” she murmured, “ while I have courage to 
speak! It is I who have killed him. I will tell you all.” 

And then she sobbed out her confession: the love 
which she had had for him, which had been worth noth- 
ing in his sight ; the forced marriage ; the cruel experi- 
ences of their union ; her sudden discovery of his love 
for another woman ; and her ignoble revenge, which had 
recoiled upon her own head. 

“ Ah !” she said, as at length, spent and exhausted, she 
rose from her knees, “ it is not your absolution that I 
want, but his. Bring me his love and forgiveness, 
father, or — I will refuse to live. Not that I believe that 
he is in danger.” 

And it was for this end, among others, that Floren- 
tius sat and watched and waited, during the long course 
of those terrible days. 

Up to this time he had failed in obtaining leave for 
her admission to the sick-room; for so absolute had 
been Methuen’s orders on this point, and indeed so for- 
midable was held to be the risk of admitting her, added 
to the bootless pain that the sight of his condition would 
have caused, that her frantic prayers and denunciations 
had been of necessity — not disregarded, for every man’s 
heart ached for her — but firmly put aside. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 363 


During these days Anna neither ate nor drank, except 
perhaps when Dr. Farquhar forced a glass of milk or 
morsel of bread upon her, and scarcely slept ; and per- 
haps in few things did her want of dignity and self-con- 
trol appear more strongly than in the vehement re- 
proaches she poured forth upon the insufficiency of her 
husband’s medical attendants to save him, so soon as her 
mind admitted the horrible idea that he might die. 
Hours of the day she spent in wandering to and fro in 
the gallery at the far end of which his room was situ- 
ated, and all through the watches of two long nights she 
had sat in a chair outside his door, with ear strained to 
catch the indistinct muttering of his delirium, until Dr. 
Farquhar had compelled her to abandon her position. 

There was no faculty of self-sustainment in her nature. 
No devotee or cloistered nun ever spent moments of 
more intense and agonized supplication than did Anna 
Methuen at the foot of the altar in the little chapel, 
offering to the God she ignorantly worshipped such 
bribes of future service and award as might have made 
the angels weep for pity. 

She was of the temper that would have made a pil- 
grimage on her knees to any shrine whence healing was 
to be drawn, or have stripped her beauty of every jewel 
she possessed, to propitiate the unseen powers ; but the 
ravings of her passionate despair, and the submissive 
prayers of the devoted friends who watched him, were 
alike in vain. There was no voice, nor any that an- 
swered. 

And then, as the awful crisis grew, and Farquhar’s set 
face told her what he could not bring his lips to speak, 
the hard rock of her heart was so far smitten that some 
drops of compunction filtered through. She had loved 
him — yes; but she had spoiled his life. She had ex- 
torted a sacrifice so great that death itself would have 
been more tolerable, and exasperated the original wrong 
until the hourly offence and persistent outrage almost 
exceeded it. 

He had paid back her selfishness and spite with an all 
but invincible magnanimity, which again in turn served 
no purpose but to stimulate the restless ingenuity of her 
efforts to overcome his forbearance. 

Her unconscious feeling had been that there was a life- 
time before her for reparation of the sins and cruelties 
of the past, whenever it suited her temper to repair them, 


3^4 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


and that she could always count on his generosity to 
receive her submission — little knowing that Fate stood 
in ambush to set this seal upon her future, and turn all 
that was left of life into one vain cry of despair and re- 
morse. 

It was in this mood of mind that the miserable girl 
was lying, face downward, on a couch in her dressing- 
room, still fighting desperately that fiercest and most 
exhausting of all warfares — the struggle of human impo- 
tence against the Divine Will — when the door was softly 
opened, and Dr. Farquhar came in. He had knocked at 
the door, but she had not heard him. It was late in the 
afternoon of the sixth day of Methuen’s declared illness, 
and the early darkness had almost closed around her. 

At the sound of the opening door, Anna started to her 
feet, and her panic-stricken face asked the question she 
could not put into words. 

“ No, my dear,” the doctor said, with a kindness so in- 
timate and tender that it was like that of a good brother 
toward a sister, “ I am not come to tell you the worst 
news of all. Let me light a candle : we can scarcely see 
each other.” 

As he did so she observed that his hand shook, and 
she herself began to tremble violently. Then she said 
in the sharp accent of intolerable pain : 

“ You mean — he is dying — but not yet dead? Doctor, 
if there be a God in heaven to swear by, I swear 1 will 
see him once again — alive !” 

He caught the folds of her gown to detain her, for she 
had turned suddenly toward the door. 

“Not yet,” he answered soothingly — “we are not 
wanted yet. He has recovered consciousness, and the 
priests are eager to secure their chance — not more eager 
than himself, I grant.” 

He stopped, for the scene he had just quitted had been 
enough to shake the most rigid self-control ; then went 
on again : 

“ I have engaged Father Florentius to summon us 
when — when all that is over — and we must wait a few 
minutes patiently. He is to be depended upon, and — of 
necessity — the viaticum must be a brief one. ’ 

Mrs. Sylvestre herself would have approved the accent 
in which he muttered these last words. 

Anna waited, erect, panting, listening, like a grey- 
hound in the leash. She was not a woman to be coaxed 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 36$ 


or petted, rather worshipped or besought ; but to Far- 
quhar’s eyes the eagerness of her face was exquisitely 
pathetic. He could not help making some attempt to 
relieve the terrible tension of her feelings. 

“ It is something,” he said, at such times as these to 
know that we have loved with all our heart and soul, 
and left no jot or tittle of our duty unfulfilled.” 

He was going on with what soothing commonplaces 
occurred to his mind, when she broke from him with a 
sudden little cry : 

“ For mercy’s sake don’t try to comfort me!” she said; 
“ it is like burning my flesh with red-hot irons !” And 
then she began to walk up and down the room, wring- 
ing her hands in a frenzy of despair that was terrible to 
witness. 

“ There is no God !” she cried ; “ the world is devil- 
governed, or no creature would be made to bear such 
misery as mine ! Go back to him — it is a crime, a dis- 
grace, to let him die I These priests are stealing our last 
chance !” 

Then, softening into appeal, and stopping before him 
with clasped hands, “ Oh ! if you would let me see 
him he should not die ; I woul d hold him so tight that 
his soul could not escape. Philip!” 

As if in answer to the appeal, footsteps approached 
the door. Anna flung it open and confronted Father 
Florentius. 

“At last !” she cried, “You have come to fetch me. 
Let us go !” And then she looked into his face, no longer 
sweet and benign, but white and stern with restrained 
anguish, and all the passionate, intense life faded out of 
her own. 

“ Do not speak !” she said, and there was something 
awful in the strained tension of her woe — “ do not speak ! 
I will not hear what you have come to say. Let us go — 
I will see with my own eyes. He is not dead 1 ” 

She advanced a step toward the door, and then Nature 
failed. She threw up her arms with a convulsive ges- 
ture, staggered, and would have fallen to the ground, if 
the priest had not sprung forward and caught her in his 
arms. 

“It is a merciful oblivion,” he said, as he lifted the 
girl and placed her on the couch. “ Do not,” he added, 
addressing Dr. Farquhar, “ be in too great a hurry to 
bring her back to a knowledge of her misery.” 

24 


366 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


“ All is over?’' asked tlie doctor huskily, ** and he did 
not mention her?” 

All is over !” answered the priest, crossing* himself, 
‘*and he did not mention her.” He stopped, and then 
added with an effort : “ It was evident there was some- 
thing on his mind he desired with intense anxiety to ex- 
press, but — it was in vain ; he could not make himself 
understood, and he endured God’s will implicitly — to 
the end.” 

His face worked for a moment with uncontrobable 
feeling. 

” A light has gone out to-day,” he said solemnly, after 
he had recovered his firmness, ” which was set on a hill, 
and showed farther than most men knew : also it has 
warmed many hearts.” 

He turned toward the couch again, and looked at Anna. 

” Poor soul ! It will be hard to comfort that bruised 
heart !” 

Dr. Farquhar projected his under-lip and remained 
silent, busying himself in applying restoratives to the 
senseless girl. His sympathies went out very strongly 
toward Lady Methuen. 

” I leave her in safe hands,” continued Florentius, 
“ and I return to town almost immediately. I have an en- 
gagement to-morrow, early, which must be met; but I 
come back for the funeral. You will let me know in 
time?” 

Farquhar nodded assent, his own voice not being per- 
fectly under control, and the two men shook hands and 
parted. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 


“ Intervals in their succession 
Are measured by the living thought alone, 

And grow or wane with its intensity.” 

— J. Newman. 

Three days afterward, that which remained of Philip 
Methuen — the last scion of a now extinct race- -was laid 
beside his ancestors in the vault beneath the chancel of 
the chapel. 

The requiem mass was as solemn and impressive as the 
skill, resources, and devotion of Father Florentius could 
make it; and the church was filled to overflowing, not 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 367 


only with personal friends of the dead man, but with a 
mixed crowd of mourners from the neighboring towns 
and villages, whose unfeigned grief and discouragement 
were convincing proofs of the extent and value of his 
silent work among them. 

When they had dispersed. Sir Walter Earle, and a few 
other men who were more immediately connected with 
the Methuen family, stood for a few moments looking 
down into the vault, which was filled to the level of the 
chancel stones by flowers of exquisite beauty, woven 
into the wreaths and crosses which are fast becoming a 
point of mere conventional routine, mixed with humble 
posies of laurustinus and rue, or scanty bunches of snow- 
drops and Christmas roses — the heart-tribute of some of 
the sorrowing poor. Immediately on the coffin-lid itself 
had been laid a cross of white violets of magnificent 
proportions, so admirably framed, and the blossoms so 
firmly and closely welded together that it had almost the 
consistency of stone. 

It had only been received late that morning, and was 
sent by the Abbe de Saleve, from the Seminary of St. 
Sulpice, “ To his dearly beloved son in Christ — Philip 
Methuen.” 

“ It seems to me only the other day,” said the baronet, 
“ that some of us here were first introduced to Philip 
Methuen by his uncle. I remember, as I daresay you 
all do, the old man’s covert pride and satisfaction in his 
new heir, and I thought myself that a finer young fellow, 
one better equipped, both in body and mind, for the 
battle of life, I had never seen.” 

There was a low murmur of assent; but at the same 
moment Father Florentius approached the group, to 
apologize, with that winning courtesy which always 
conquered the good-will of strangers, for the lack of hos- 
pitality in not asking them to return to the house, but 
Lady Methuen’s condition was such that it was not de- 
sirable for any guest to cross the threshold. 

When they had left the chapel, being accompanied by 
him to the door, Florentius returned once more to the 
interior, and stood for a few minutes looking down into 
the open vault. Perhaps the men whose vocation cuts 
them off from the most intimate relations of life which 
bind others to the future of the race are most suscepti- 
ble to the strong claims of friendship, slaking a natural 
thirst -f^t this well of consolation. Any way, as this man 


368 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


looked into Philip Methuen’s grave, he acknowledged 
to himself that when he turned away from it and faced 
the world again, it would be with a deeper sense of pain 
and loss than had ever come to him before — a secret 
anguish scarcely to be appeased, although it might be 
transmuted into incessant prayers and masses for the 
dead. 

The sudden and unexpected sound of a footfall on the 
steps entering the chapel, and approaching in the direc- 
tion where he stood, caused him to start from his ab- 
straction and face round upon his intruder. 

Father Florentius possessed the faculty of a royal 
memory — ^he never forgot a face he had once seen nor a 
name that he had heard — and he recognized imme- 
diately in the tall, stiff, black-robed figure before him the 
kinswoman who had stood at the altar by Anna Trevel- 
yan’s side upon her wedding-day. In spite of his in- 
stinctive displeasure at what appeared to him an unau- 
thorized intrusion, some recognition was necessary. He 
bowed stiffly. 

“ I believe I have the honor of speaking to Mrs. Syl- 
vestre?” he said. 

Mrs. Sylvestre, standing rigidly erect, and with her 
back toward the emblazoned altar, on which the candles 
still burned in the lustrous gloom, suffered her eyes to 
traverse his dignified figure from head to foot with a 
certain grim, investigating discourtesy, and then she 
glanced down into the open vault. He observed that, 
as she did so, her face softened a little. 

“ Your memory serves you well,” was her answer; “ I 
am Mrs. Sylvestre, and I have done violence both to my 
feelings and my principles in seeking you in — in this 
place. But I have been turned back by lackeys from 
the door of my niece’s house, of which I am given to un- 
derstand that you are the provisional master. I come, 
therefore, to ask you personally whether you presume 
to deny me admission to Lady Methuen?” 

“On the contrary,” he said, “if you are come, as no 
doubt you are, to try and console the broken-hearted, 
and break down the barrier of her despair, I wish you 
God-speed, and will take you to her myself. Only — 
such is her state of mind that it would tax the tender- 
ness of a mother, however tender.” 

“ I will do my best, and accept the doubt you imply 
without resenting it. For 1 own my heart has never 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 369 


been softened toward Anna Trevelyan till now ; but the 
one saving spot in her nature was that she loved a man 
better than herself, and this man has lost his life in a 
way that might well try the faith and patience of the 
best among us.” 

Father Florentius remained silent. 

“ You will not commit yourself to an opinion,” she said. 
“ Philip Methuen’s death is a deplorable event, and the 
onus of it lies heavily on the head of those who invited 
and encouraged him to put himself in the way of danger. 
If there is one woman more miserable to-day than the 
poor, desperate, widowed girl he has left behind him, it 
must surely be Honor Aylmer ! She might be forgiven, 
if she prayed God that she might die.” 

They were slowly walking together toward the house, 
Florentius listening with an air of respectful attention to 
the intense, incisive speech of his companion, but still pre- 
serving silence. Presently she stood still, and looked 
him full in the face. 

“You profess,” she said, “to have been this man’s 
friend — under ties of special fellow-feeling. Have you 
no sense of resentment against the selfishness and folly 
which have brought him to an untimely grave?” 

“ Untimely !” he repeated. “ So we speak, but do you 
think that the events of life take God at the surprise, or 
that the breath which he breathes into our souls is ever 
surrendered otherwise than at his command? This 
young man's course was fulfilled : the work accomplished 
which had been given him to do. When the soldier is 
called off the field it is because the battle is done.” 

She glanced at him curiously ; his manner was at once 
so quiet and convinced. “ Short service means short 
pay,” was her answer; “or is the heavenly award the 
same for striplings as for veterans?” 

He smiled. “ That is a natural mistake we are all apt 
to fall into — to suppose that time is measured on the 
same lines in the immaterial world as with us. Its 
standard of chronology is according to the energy of 
thought — the concentration of life — the resolution of 
purpose and of will. In this sense Philip Methuen was 
older than many old men.” 

“ Have you offered these consolations to his widow?” 

“ Alas ! poor child, I should speak to her in an un- 
known tongue. It will be for your woman’s wit to de- 
vise some word or thought of alleviation.” 


370 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


When they had reached the door of Anna’s room, 
Florentius said, “ Knock, and enter without waiting for 
permission, or she may refuse to see you.” 

Mrs. Sylvestre did as she was told, and in another mo- 
ment she was standing within the darkened room, strain- 
ing her eyes to distinguish the figure of her niece. It 
was no wonder that she did not see her at first, for the 
windows were darkened, shutting out the mild shining 
of the winter sun, and the girl in her clinging black gar- 
ments was lying on her couch, with all the glory of her 
neglected hair flowing loose about her shoulders. A 
striking proof of the abandonment of her grief lay in the 
fact that she was* insensible to the circumstances of per- 
sonal discomfort and relief. She had not taken off her 
clothes from the hour when the news of her husband’s 
death struck her to the earth, nor had she suffered a ser- 
vant to enter her room to renew her fire or bring her food. 

The temperature struck cold even on Mrs. Sylvestre ’s 
well-trained perceptions, and the aspect of Anna, wan, 
dishevelled, with the gleam of despair, almost of frenzy, 
in her distended eyes, as she sprang to her feet to resent 
the unauthorized intrusion, produced an effect on her 
mind such as she would scarcely have believed it possi- 
ble for her to experience. 

“You!” cried Anna, and her voice was harsh and un- 
natural, “ You! Are you come to mock and insult me — 
to tell me that I am not more miserable than I deserve?” 

“ My poor girl ! even I am not so hard as that” — her 
voice shook with the unaccustomed strain of pity and 
sympathy : “ if you will let me, I will love you from this 
day forward ! As for comfort — God knows, I have none 
to offer you !” 

Perhaps no words that she could have spoken would 
have grated less on the sore exasperated mind of her 
hearer, to whom consolation seemed only an outrage and 
offence. The look of tenderness in her aunt’s face trans- 
formed it for a moment into an expression that recalled 
the beloved, never-to-be-forgotten father of her child- 
hood ; also she was ready to sink under the protracted 
tension of her misery, and of abstinence from food and 
rest. 

There was a moment of instinctive doubt and holding 
back, and then she had tottered forward with a piteous 
little wail, to be caught for the first time in Mrs. Sylves- 
tre ’s arms and pressed against her breast. 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


371 


It is difficult to gauge the depths of human misery ; 
but perhaps even the grief of Anna Methuen, with all its 
aggravations, was not greater than that which bowed to 
the dust the soul of Isabelle Earle, as she watched the 
gradual quickening of life and hope and tender grati- 
tude toward God and her friends in her dearly beloved 
Honor. 

Every step which she took toward recovery, and every 
little indication of renewed interest in the affairs of the 
outside world — her sweet thankfulness, her winning 
cheerfulness — had each and all the power of inflicting a 
separate pang. 

How would it ever be possible to communicate that 
terrible secret, which seemed to enclose in it the very 
elements of destruction? Would Honor, who was only 
just now retracing her feeble steps from death’s dark 
valley, hear it and live? At times Miss Earle felt an 
almost despairing hope that the news might reach her in 
some indirect way — as though a bird of the air should 
carry the matter ; and again, the fear seized her lest any 
chance word or look should reveal that to which nothing 
but her tenderness would be equal. One circumstance 
made concealment easier, though it seemed to her full 
of poignant pathos — Honor never mentioned Philip 
Methuen. It was as though she had accepted that sol- 
emn interview as the seal of future separation ; but that 
he was often in her thoughts, and even caused the ex- 
pressive changes of her sweet face — but little marred by 
the disease through which she had been so skilfully 
nursed — was evident to Miss Earle’s ceaseless and tender 
observation. And in this way two months elapsed, and 
still — so close was the watch kept, and so great the loy- 
alty of all around — Miss Earle had succeeded in keeping 
back from Honor Aylmer the knowledge of Philip Meth- 
uen’s death, and each day and hour as it passed made the 
task more difficult and the result more formidable. 

Methuen Place was shut up, and Mrs. Sylvestre had 
gone abroad with Anna. Honor was permitted to know 
the former fact, and had naturally drawn from it her 
own sorrowful but tenderly resigned conclusions, setting 
her face with a firmness she had never attained before 
to the idea of that complete renunciation of all inter- 
course, which he had always held as a duty. 

But in spite of all precautions, the blow was finally 
dealt at unawares, and not by Miss Earle’s careful hands. 


372 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


Honor’s convalescence was now so far confirmed that 
she had resumed most of her usual habits. The spring 
was late and ungenial : when the weather improved she, 
with Miss Earle and Adrian, was going away for a 
lengthened tour ; but at present, Dr. Farquhar said, in- 
valids were better off in their own homes with all their 
comforts around them. 

On the occasion of which we speak she was sitting, as 
she used to sit of old, in Oliver’s room, sketching at a 
table with her back toward him, and each was chatting 
to the other with more of the old familiar kindness than 
had marked their intercourse for some time before her 
illness. 

Oliver was talking with great animation of a piece of 
music he had composed for the piano — a funeral march — 
which had been received with great acceptance by his 
friends, so as to suggest to him the idea of publication. 
‘‘ But I own my weakness. Honor,” he said, with a 
forced laugh ; “ I am afraid of the critics ! If they mauled 
me, I should feel it terribly. Had poor Methuen” 
(death had destroyed animosity) — and then he stopped 
with a terrible abruptness, and a look of fear and self- 
reproach in his face, which was alone a revelation. 

“ Poor Methuen!” We all know the tone in which the 
living vaunt their superiority over the dead. 

Honor had risen and turned upon him, and the sight 
of her livid and stricken face brought the miserable Oli- 
ver, with a painful effort, crawling to her feet. His 
excitement and despair left nothing for his trembling 
tongue to tell. 

She did not swoon nor weep, but stood erect, as rigid 
and motionless as if turned to stone ; only the questions 
which fell like drops of molten lead from her ashy lips — 
when, where, and how — so wrought upon the brain of 
the other that he answered them with a mechanical ac- 
curacy, as if under the pressure of the mesmeric trance. 

Had she been of another temper, the shock might have 
turned her brain, and madness or death itself super- 
vened; but her nature was too chastened and tender for 
such extremity. But her heart sank, with that pro- 
found, speechless, unutterable weight which comes to 
those whose power of resilience has received its death- 
blow. The tide of renewed health, which had been 
flowing through her veins, chilled and slackened ; and 
the pulses, which had almost regained their former reg- 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 373 

ular elastic beat, leaped and fluctuated and faltered down 
to tremor and feebleness. 

That he had died by the visitation of God would have 
taxed her fortitude to its utmost reach, but still not have 
exceeded it ; but that he had died at her hands — poisoned 
by her guilty kisses, because she had not courage to 
forego the sight of him when dying — the burden of that 
crime made life too hard to be borne. 

She lived two years after the blow had fallen; but 
it was as much her death-blow as if it had killed her 
instantaneously. 

The chief part of the time was spent in that weary 
search for health, in other lands, under warmer skies, 
which adds so much weariness and disappointment to 
the sad business of protracted dying ; Miss Earle watch- 
ing the sure decline with a heart of agony beneath her 
steadfast constancy. 

As Honor’s strength failed more and more, she im- 
plored to be taken home to Earlescourt, a request which 
was yielded to at once, with that facility which means 
that hope has died out even in our nearest and dearest. 
During the interval that remained to her of life, her 
sweetness and unselfishness, and constant care for others 
in their relations with herself, never failed, but rather 
shone brighter and brighter toward the perfect day. 
And with all these endearing qualities was mixed a hu- 
mility infinitely pathetic, as of one self-condemned and 
utterly unworthy of the goodness of which she was the 
object. 

A few weeks before her death she asked Adrian if he 
would do her one last service, in memory of the affec- 
tion which had never failed between them. 

“ I would go to the ends of the earth for you, Honor,” 
was his answer. 

“ I do not wish you to go quite so far as that,” she 
said, with a little smile ; “ but go far enough to find 
Anna Methuen and bring her to me, that I may confess 
and win her pardon before I die. I think I cannot die 
unless ” 

He had not much difficulty in his quest. Anna was 
again abroad, but this time Mrs. Auchester was her trav- 
elling companion ; and Adrian, who found them at Men- 
tone, was welcomed by that lady with a cordiality which 
he owed to her knowledge of the fact that he had been 
one of Philip Methuen’s friends. 


374 the story OF PHILIP METHUEN, 

Adrian was sadly aware that, if he were to accomplish 
the object of his journey, he had no time to lose, and yet 
he felt an almost invincible repugnance to introduce or 
urge the matter upon Anna’s hard and indifferent atten- 
tion. At last he simply put it to her thus: “ Honor was 
dying, and earnestly desired to see her once more. 
Would she not consent to come home?” 

And then as he looked at her his heart and his glance 
quickened, and burning words of personal suasion and 
appeal rose to his tongue; but he kept them under, 
though not without difficulty. He had thought that, as 
their eyes encountered, a soft, crimson flush passed over 
the delicate, smooth pallor of Anna’s cheek. But this 
was not the time to speak of love or hope. 

“ I will not come home,” she answered, and her eyes 
darkened and narrowed as she spoke. “ Honor Aylmer 
has been dying before to-day, and I would not save her 
life, or ease her mind, if I could do it by the lifting up 
of my right hand. Tell her to give me back what she 
took away — ah ! you are cruel — I will not bear it ! only 
say, she cannot be more miserable than I would have 
her.” 

Was he to go home with such a message as this, to 
crush the tender broken heart? In his perplexity and 
distress he applied to Lord Sainsbury, who had lately 
joined his party, knowing how very close and intimate 
the relations between him and Philip Methuen had been. 

“I will speak to her,” was Sainsbury’s answer, when 
Adrian, with great delicacy and tact, had stated the case 
and besought his interference; “but it will probably 
have no effect, and — it was an action which needs great 
magnanimity to forgive. It made this world the poorer 
for a great many of us.” 

The next day he fulfilled his promise. 

“ Anna,” he said, as they were pacing up and down the 
sea-wall together in the clear brightness of the early 
morning, “ Adrian Earle told me last night the business 
which has brought him here. My dear, you must go 
back to England, for no other purpose than to give 
Honor Aylmer the forgiveness she wants.” 

Anna turned and looked at him, with her eyes full of 
confused anger and pain. 

As he seemed to wait for her answer, she said at last, 
in a smothered voice : “You hurt me ! do not speak of it, 
I will never forgive her!” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 375 

** You must forgive her !” he repeated. “You cannot 
let her go down into the grave unhappy — this woman 
above all others ! ” 

“ Above all other women, this is she whom I would 
make miserable in life or in death !” washer low-breathed 
answer. “ You do not know !” 

“ I know more than you think, and can understand the 
state of your mind; but that devil’s whisper must be dis- 
regarded. Do this thing as an act of grace to cover any 
sins of which your secret heart may be aware — as against 
your husband. We are all guilty of such, even toward 
those we love better than our life.” 

She made no answer, and for a few minutes they 
walked in silence; then he resumed: “We will all go 
home together. I, too, have found it hard to forgive, 
but — I understand — it is the sense of what she has done 
that has broken her heart. She gives her life as forfeit 
for his — can she do more?” 

Anna yielded so far under this pressure as to consent 
to see Honor ; and her changed aspect, both of body and 
mind, moved her more than she had believed possible. 
Her physical weakness and pathetic humility were such 
as to be exquisitely distasteful to Anna to witness, and 
she cut short the painful interview as much as pos- 
sible. 

“ I will forgive you in a sense,” she said, standing be- 
side Honor’s bed, in the magnificent vigor of her health 
and beauty ; “ but fully, with my heart in it, that is out 
of my power. The thought of him — struck down and 
dying — through you — in those few cruel days — is just 
to me now what it was then. But I will not curse you 
nor hate you — that is, for Philip’s dear sake. Do not 
ask to see me any more.” 

A few days afterward Honor passed painlessly out of 
life, and as soon as the first shock of tender pain was 
over, Adrian resolved to throw himself once more into 
the excitement of adventurous travel. The look that he 
had seen in Anna’s eyes when she had last spoken of 
Philip daunted him ; if she would ever consent to come 
to him it would not be yet. 

She was the last person to whom he went to make his 
adieux. 

“ You are really going away?” she asked. “ For how 
long?” and she looked at him with her proud, direct gaze, 
in which there was not a touch of embarrassment. 


376 THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN, 


“ How long?’' he answered ; “ forever, I think ; that is — 
till you bid me come home.” 

She got up from her seat and began to walk slowly up 
and down the room after a habit she had adopted — it 
was the formal, colorless room of Skeffington Vicarage, 
almost unchanged from the hour when she had first be- 
held it. 

Anna had never yet returned to Methuen Place ; she 
said it would kill her to cross the threshold of the door 
and enter one of the familiar rooms. 

Adrian sat and watched her in eager silence, thinking 
of the time, two years ago, when she had paced the floor 
as now, debating with her conscience and her heart. 
Then what he had dared to offer was shame, to be miti- 
gated by love and revenge ; now honor and bliss — the 
wine and roses of life — were in his gift, would she but 
believe it and put it to the proof. Even now, when hope 
had grown weary and impatient, was it possible that 
there was a chance for him : that the proud, pale, for- 
lorn-looking woman — dearer and more beautiful than 
ever — was once more hesitating if she should accept his 
devotion? 

He rose and approached her, his face alight with ex- 
citement. 

“ Stop !” she said, stepping back and putting her hands 
behind her, “ let me speak first. You still love me, you 
poor Adrian? You would like me to promise that I 
would be your wife?” Her eyes looked straight into his, 
but there was no blush on her face. 

“ I have loved you, Anna,” was his answer, “ since the 
first hour we met in Methuen Park, and I shall love you 
to my last. Marry me if you will, but if you refuse no 
other woman shall ever be my wife.” 

“I will be your wife,” she said, quite gravely and 
simply, “ if you will have me on my own terms. I do 
not love you, but I am grateful to you for your faithful- 
ness, and — I cannot live alone ! They think I have for- 
gotten, but — I have not forgotten! Often at nights I 
dash myself on the floor, and lie there weeping and 
groaning for Philip. He is before my eyes day and 
night, till I could cry out to be relieved of the thought 
of him.” She put her hands before her eyes, and when 
she removed them he saw her cheeks were wet with 
tears. “ I — I would forget Philip if I could/’ she added; 
” you will help me to do this?” 


THE STORY OF PHILIP METHUEN. 


377 


Adrian turned a little pale, and for a moment he hesi- 
tated. Then he looked at her again, and love conquered 
pain and misgiving. “ What you offer me, Anna, is an 
ordeal that a man might well hesitate to accept ; but I 
will risk it and take you, dear, even on your own hard 
terms. You have not spared my feelings.” He did not 
approach her, though his heart yearned to take her at 
last into his arms, but continued to gaze at her with a 
touch of tender derision in his face. 

His pride and reticence produced their effect. The 
color came into her cheek, and she averted her head. 

“ I have been too honest,” she said; “ you would have 
liked better to have been deceived. I ask you to take 
me and help me to conquer a pain I cannot bear, and by 
which I am worn out, but — you are not bound to help 
me, Adrian.” 

He was kneeling at her feet by this time with his arms 
about the tall, lithe, black-robed figure, and his face 
raised passionately to hers. “ I am bound body and 
soul,” he breathed. “I cannot help myself: kiss me 
this once, Anna, my own, at last !” 

She sighed profoundly, and turned away her eyes from 
him, but without releasing herself from his embrace. 
Then slowly turning again toward him, she put both 
hands upon his shoulders, bowed her superb head, and 
touched his lips with hers. 


THE END. 


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